by Jane Jackson
‘Pour a cup for you shall I, miss?’ Sarah enquired, setting the tray down in the space Melissa had hastily cleared.
‘No, it’s all right, Sarah. I can manage.’ Leaning forward to gather up the letters and papers strewn over the desktop, Melissa gave the maid a brief smile. ‘I’ll ring if I need anything.’
Still Sarah dithered, reluctant to leave. ‘Want for me to send John over to Pencoombe, do you?’
Melissa’s head flew up. ‘What on earth for?’
‘Well, ’tisn’t right you having to do everything all by yourself.’
Melissa’s eyebrows rose. ‘Sarah, I’m perfectly capable of –’
‘’Course you are. No one could say otherwise. But we got eyes in our heads. We all know how much you bin doing to help master. So we was just thinking, what with your mother so ill an’ all, and now your dear father took bad, maybe your Uncle Marcus or Uncle Brinley could –’
Melissa bit her tongue, knowing the suggestion sprang from concern for her well-being. The same age as herself, Sarah had come into service at the age of ten. Like the rest of the staff, her connection with the family was of long standing, as her parents and grandparents had also worked for Tregonnings. This long-established tradition had resulted in the servants adopting the family as their own. So while respectful and scrupulously attentive to every detail of their duties, when, in their opinion, the occasion warranted, they felt free to ignore normal boundaries and speak their minds.
‘Sarah, if my uncles are sent for, my aunts will come as well. It would be impossible to keep them away. Even if they respected my father’s privacy, just think what it would mean for my mother. She wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. Yet that’s exactly what she needs right now. So, much as I appreciate your offer, and I do, truly, I would rather not involve my uncles for the time being.’
A fiery blush scalded the maid’s face and she dipped her head. ‘Beg pardon, miss. I shouldn’t have spoke out of turn. It was just –’
‘It’s all right. I do understand. And I’m not angry. How could I be when I know you were only trying to help?’
‘That’s the truth, miss, as God’s my judge. Sure you don’t want nothing else?’
‘Not for the moment.’ She smiled and Sarah, still very pink, bobbed a curtsy and bustled out.
Pouring herself some tea, Melissa placed the cup and saucer within easy reach and, sitting down in her father’s chair, drew a fresh sheet of paper and the inkstand toward her, and picked up a pen. After several moments’ thought she began writing.
Once she had started, it was less difficult than she had feared. She kept the letter brief, setting out the facts just as the doctor had given them to her. Then she reassured her brother that she would manage everything until his return. To add to his burden by confessing her fears and anxieties would be both selfish and unfair. It would take several weeks for the letter to reach him, and several more for him to get home. And by that time it was probable … No: she would think no further than tomorrow.
Signing her name, she took another sheet and wrote a second, identical letter. When she had finished she folded both and sealed them, and addressed one to Lieutenant George Tregonning, His Majesty’s Ship Defiant, c/o Admiralty House, London, to be sent out on one of the navy sloops. After writing her brother’s name and that of his ship on the other, she hesitated. Then, remembering him telling her that following a terrible storm in 1784 the Custom House and Public Offices had been moved from Port Royal, she addressed it instead to Kingston. This letter would go from Falmouth on the Jamaica packet, so even if one went astray, hopefully the other would reach him safely.
As Gilbert left with the letters, closing the door behind him, Melissa let her head fall back against the dark, shiny leather. Sarah’s reminder of her uncles was like a thorn under her skin. While waiting for the doctor to arrive, she had wrestled with the question of when to tell them.
Naturally they would have to be informed. But surely it would do no harm to wait a little? It wasn’t as if they could actually do anything. According to Dr Wherry the next 48 hours were critical, and a calm, quiet atmosphere must be maintained. If noise and fuss were to be avoided, then so were her uncles and their wives.
Straightening in the chair, Melissa swivelled it to face the desk, took a sip of her tea, and drew the pile of letters and papers toward her. She needed to keep busy. If she stopped, fear for her father would take over. For all their sakes she could not afford to let that happen. Instead, she would make herself useful. Her father had always dealt with the paperwork, though it now appeared even that had proved too much for him. It surely could not be so difficult? If it wasn’t, then he had simply lost the will, or the ability, to concentrate.
Blinking away tears, she drew a deep breath. The more she could do to help, the less he would have to worry about. Maybe if she were able to reassure him … She bit her lip hard. She must not hope. Dr Wherry had been brutally frank.
‘He may not die. But the damage is so great –’
‘Are you saying it would be better if he did?’
‘I am saying his physical and mental abilities would be severely impaired. You know your father: would he wish to live like that, do you think?’
Memories had whirled through her mind: going neck or nothing alongside him with the hunt; riding with him over the farm, listening to his plans to grow new crops such as swedes and mangel-wurzels, and maybe to invest in the new Tullian seed drill; accompanying him and Tom through the yard, listening as they discussed progress on a boat.
She could not imagine a more terrible life for her father than to be deprived of movement or understanding. Or worse: to retain awareness yet find himself unable to communicate. So she had shaken her head, her chest hurting as she choked down sobs, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ached.
Taking another sip of tea, she forced her attention back to the pile of letters and documents. Replacing her cup, she leafed through them, intending first to simply divide them into business and personal before deciding what action each required. But almost at once she came across three from Williams’ Bank in Truro.
Several minutes later, tea forgotten, she raised her head and stared blindly at the book-lined wall opposite. Despite the summer sunshine flooding the room with warmth and light, she was cold to the marrow of her bones.
How had things reached such a pass? Why had he allowed it to go on so long, get so out of hand? Why had he not confided in her? Her breath caught on a shuddering sigh. That at least was easily answered. A proud man, he could not have borne to admit the extent to which he had lost control of his financial affairs, particularly to his own daughter who, at 12, had proclaimed him her hero.
Checking the dates, she saw that the letters had been written over a period of six weeks. Each began by regretting that Mr Tregonning had not responded either by letter or in person to previous communications. They continued, in increasingly stern tones, by requesting immediate repayment of at least a portion of the outstanding loan. The most recent letter made it clear that further delay was unacceptable, and should he not appear in person to discuss the matter, then regretfully the bank would have no alternative but to foreclose and take whatever steps necessary to recover their money, or goods to the value thereof.
Melissa shivered, then burned with mortification on his behalf as she imagined his shame, the terrible anxiety, and his fear of exposing the family, especially her mother, to the gossip and censure that would inevitably attend such a process. Why had he not replied to the letters? And if his recent visits to Truro had not been to the bank, then where had he gone?
Setting those letters aside, she picked up the rest of the papers and glanced through them. There were letters from shareholders in the new packet-ship, and from insurance companies. There were invoices and represented accounts marked with red ink from paint shop, rope store, sail maker and foundry, and others concerning the farm.
Dividing them into piles, not allowing herself to look at the
totals – she would face that later – she scanned the desktop to make sure nothing had been missed, and glimpsed the distinctive green seal on a folded sheet partially hidden beneath the tray. As she opened and read it, her heart gave a convulsive lurch that left her dizzy and nauseous. This, surely, was what had pushed her father over the edge.
Expressing sincere remorse, aware that the timing was most unfortunate, Thomas Vincent deeply regretted that in view of his own suddenly straitened circumstances due to the unfortunate failure of a business investment, he had no choice but to request most urgently the immediate refund of his loan.
Her father was in debt to a moneylender as well as to the bank? Reading the sum due, Melissa gasped, and sat frozen as fear broke over her in a crushing, suffocating wave. The foundations of her world had shifted. Everything she believed firm and solid had suddenly turned to quicksand. She felt dazed and breathless. A knock on the door made her start violently. She looked up, trying to compose herself, as Addey peered in.
‘There you are. Your mother’s asking for you. Ever so much better she is. Still weak, but I reckon she’s over the worst now. You going to be long in here?’
Melissa had to clear her throat before any sound would emerge from her constricted throat. ‘No. I’ll – I’ll be up in just a moment.’ As the nurse withdrew, Melissa placed her hands flat on the edge of the desktop and pushed herself to her feet.
What was she to do? She had to do something. If she didn’t, her father’s good name would be ruined, and her mother become an object of pity and scorn, gossiped about at assemblies on whose guest lists the Tregonning name would appear less and less. But do what?
She could, of course, call in her uncles, lay the situation before them, and ask for their help. But pride and a determination to protect her father – for clearly he had not confided in them himself – put that out of the question. So did the thought of her aunts’ reactions.
If she could somehow manage to hold things together until George got home … Yet even if there were no delay in the letters reaching him, it would be at least three months before he returned to Cornwall. Neither the bank nor Thomas Vincent would wait that long. Which meant that somehow she must raise the money to repay the debts. But how was she to do that? And keep her uncles from finding out?
Chapter Five
By late afternoon, Melissa was exhausted. She had spent the day either in her father’s study struggling to bring order to the chaos and make a list of how much and to whom money was owed, or sitting with her mother while Addey bustled about seeing to her mistress’s comfort. It wasn’t so much the tasks themselves that Melissa found draining, but the effort of hiding her shock and anxiety at the size of the financial disaster.
‘Looking proper hagged, you are,’ the old nurse announced, returning with a fresh jug of lemonade. ‘How don’t you get a breath of air? Don’t you go telling me you haven’t got time. What with poor master like he is, and your dear mother weak as a kitten, there isn’t that much for you to do.’
Oh Addey, if you only knew.
‘Anyhow, I don’t want you getting ill.
‘I’m never ill.’ Melissa flexed her shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck to ease the tight band of tension that had formed there.
‘Dear life! Don’t go saying things like that!’ the old nurse scolded, looking quickly round for the nearest wood and tapping the bedside table. ‘Don’t you argue neither. I’ll stay with mistress. She’s sleeping lovely now. Mind you, I reckon she’ll have the aches for a few days yet. And she’ll be limp as a rag for a fortnight. But now the fever has broke, the worst is over. Gilbert says master’s sleeping so there isn’t no call for you to feel you got to go and sit with he. You get off out, but mind you take a shawl. The sun might be out, but there’s still an edge to that there wind.’
Tying the ribbons of a chip straw hat under her chin, Melissa swung the fringed silk over her shoulders and set off down the drive. She would have preferred to ride, but that would have meant changing her dress. And as the household kept country hours and dined early, she wouldn’t have time on her return to bathe and change again.
She did not relish the task ahead. But it was only fair that Tom be told of her father’s illness. A far thornier question, and one she had not yet resolved, was whether she should confide to him the financial catastrophe facing the family. It would inevitably affect the yard.
Tom Ferris had worked for Tregonning’s for 40 years. Totally honest, he had never pulled his punches with her father during their private discussions. She had grown quite accustomed to hear them bellowing at one another. But when the men were about, Tom invariably stood firm behind her father and backed his decisions. Though she had seen him literally chewing his tongue on occasions.
The sound of hooves broke into her thoughts. Glancing up, Melissa saw her Uncle Brinley’s gig approaching, drawn by a showy, high-stepping chestnut. Suppressing the flutter of apprehension in her chest, she continued walking toward him, stretching her mouth into a smile of welcome as her thoughts darted in all directions like sparks from a spitting log.
He did not return her smile, his expression set. She curled her fingers into her palm, refusing to speculate on the cause. She would find out soon enough.
‘Ah Melissa, I was just coming to – Whoa there! Stand still, damn you!’ He hauled on the reins and the chestnut danced on the spot, tossing its head and mouthing the bit that sawed at the corners of a foam-flecked mouth that would soon be hard as leather.
Placing one hand on the soft muzzle, Melissa murmured soothingly to the sweating animal. Heavy-handed and impatient, her uncle quickly ruined every new horse he bought, and got rid of them at a huge loss, cursing their poor breeding and the morals of whoever had sold him such rubbish.
‘Your Aunt Louisa was taken ill during the night. I’ve had the doctor to her, and he says it’s this damned influenza. Thought I’d better warn your mother. Know she’s not up to snuff at the moment.’
‘That was kind of you, Uncle Brinley. Unfortunately –’ she made a wry face ‘– your warning comes a little too late I’m afraid.’
‘Already got it, has she? Not surprised. Nothing to her. Like a feather in a breeze. Bad, is she?’
‘Not as bad as we might have expected. The fever has broken, and she’s resting comfortably.’
‘Glad to hear it. You off somewhere in particular? No, don’t suppose you can be or you’d be aboard that great brute of yours. Hardly a suitable mount for a young lady. Still, I don’t suppose it would be easy to find something to fit, you being like you are.’
Too used to his blunt manner to take offence, and ignoring the insinuation that her height was some kind of deformity, which was evidently how he perceived it, Melissa shook her head. ‘I was just getting some fresh air. I’ve been indoors all day.’
‘Father at home? May as well have a chat with him now I’m here. Haven’t seen much of him lately. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if he isn’t avoiding us.’
Her insides giving a sudden and painful lurch, Melissa shook her head again. ‘Oh Uncle Brinley, how can you think such a thing? It’s just that he’s been particularly busy at the yard. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him today.’
Brinley Tregonning’s fleshy features drew together in a frown. ‘Oh? Don’t tell me he’s not here again.’
‘No, he’s at home. But he’s not receiving visitors. I’m afraid he’s ill.’
‘He got the influenza as well?’
Still stroking the chestnut’s nose, Melissa blinked away the sharp sting of tears. ‘No, he’s had a stroke.’
‘What? Are you sure? I suppose you must be. Had the doctor? Yes, of course you have. Well, what a thing. Damned sorry to hear it.’ His frown sharpened and he stretched his chin forward in the mannerism she knew all too well. ‘Just a minute, when did this happen? Why wasn’t I informed? My brother suffers a stroke, and you’re wandering around out here, taking the air? If I hadn’t come to call on your mothe
r, how long would you have waited before bothering to let me know? What about Marcus? Has he been told?’
‘No, of course not. What I mean is I would never have informed him and not you.’ Watching a little of the tension leave him, she understood why, given the rivalry between the brothers, her father had not felt able to confide in either of them. ‘Uncle Brinley, I can only apologise. It only happened this morning. Naturally I sent for Dr Wherry at once –’
‘Don’t like the fellow myself, got some odd notions. But Louisa seems happy with him, and from what she tells me he’s been kind to your mother.’
‘Indeed, without his understanding I really don’t know if my mother would –’ Cutting herself short, Melissa drew a deep breath. ‘My father was taken ill at breakfast. Dr Wherry came within the hour. I cannot speak highly enough –’ She stopped again, swallowing hard. ‘He advised me to send for George.’
Her uncle’s face slackened as he recognised the implication. ‘Did he now?’ He cleared his throat several times. ‘Does he say –? Did he give any indication – how long?’
‘He’s coming back tomorrow morning.’
Brinley nodded. ‘How’s your mother taken it?’
Melissa moistened her lips. ‘I haven’t told her yet. The fever – she’s still very weak. I didn’t want – it seemed wiser to wait a day or two, let her recover her strength.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Hmm. I daresay that’s best. An event like this, on top of what happened a twelvemonth ago – well, you know what I mean.’
‘I was going to write to Uncle Marcus this evening and ask young John to take it round. But I think perhaps Aunt Lucy in Plymouth should be told as well.’
