Remember Me

by Lesley Pearse

  Dolly had foresight and imagination. She said that with just a little capital, Mary could run a boarding-house down in Cornwall. She suggested Truro as many people passed through there, or even Falmouth where she could cater for ships’ officers and their families. Another idea was that their parents might be persuaded to buy a small farm, and Mary could grow produce to sell.

  ‘I might even join you in it if London begins to pall for me,’ Dolly laughed. ‘What you’ve got to keep in mind, Mary, is that you aren’t an ordinary woman, you are brave, strong and sharp-witted. That’s more than enough to succeed. If you stay in London, the only positions open to you will be lowly ones, like kitchen maid. You’ll hate it. You can’t kow-tow to a grumpy cook or a snooty mistress, you’ve seen too much for that. Be brave once more and go home.’

  September came in with glorious weather, and whenever Dolly could get away from her mistress for a few hours, she spent them with Mary. The shared laughter, the pleasure of discovering how much they had in common, eased Mary’s grief for her children, and she felt her old optimism and strength returning.

  Mr Castel, with Boswell’s help, had written to Ned Puckey to ask him to pass on the news of Mary to the Broads. Boswell had written to his friend the Reverend John Baron of Lostwithiel, seeking his help too in making sure Grace and William Broad were willing to receive Mary home.

  Yet long before either the Puckeys or the Reverend Baron could have received these letters, one arrived at Boswell’s home from Elizabeth Puckey, Ned’s wife. It seemed her family had only heard about Mary when she was pardoned. At that time the story about her transportation and subsequent escape was in a Cornish newspaper. Now they were very anxious to know how and where she was. Elizabeth urged that Mary should come home to her family, who as she put it ‘were now in very different circumstances, due to a sizeable inheritance’. She said Mary would have the warmest of welcomes from all members of the family and that William and Grace Broad were very relieved and happy to know their younger daughter had survived her terrible troubles.

  While that letter assured Mary of her family’s affection for her, and made her wholeheartedly wish to see them, she was still torn. She liked London, she wanted to stay close to Dolly, Boswell was such a good friend and such stimulating company, and then there was Mrs Wilkes too, of whom she’d grown very fond.

  Boswell showed her a life which didn’t exist in Cornwall. He took her to the theatre, coffee houses and restaurants. With Dolly she could recapture her girlhood, discuss men, clothes and the many differences in their lives now to the one they were born to.

  Mrs Wilkes was a mother–aunt figure. She was wise and kind, knowledgeable and refined too. Mary sensed she wanted her to stay with her, and help her run her boarding-house. This was very appealing to Mary, for she felt safe there, but as Dolly pointed out, she would have to do the rough work, emptying slop pails, carrying hot water, doing laundry and scrubbing floors. Dolly said she should aspire to more than that.

  Then there were the men still in Newgate. Mary didn’t feel able to leave London while they remained in prison. Soon after she met up with Dolly again, despite advice from both Boswell and Mrs Wilkes, she went to visit them. After living in such comfortable surroundings, she was horrified and appalled by Newgate, and it seemed impossible that she could have borne those terrible conditions for the best part of a year. Whilst she knew Boswell was still battling for her friends, there was no pardon in sight yet.

  Sam was so demoralized that he’d applied to enlist in the New South Wales Corps, a body of men who were to take over the role of the Marines and police the new colony. His reason for this change of heart was that he’d come to see England had nothing to offer men like him, and out in New South Wales as a free man he would be given a grant of land.

  James was still working on his memoirs. He said Nat and Bill had a different idea every day for what they were going to do when they became free. Mary was terribly afraid that day would never come, but the men insisted it would, that they were happy enough, and that she must get on with her own life and not be held back by thoughts of them.

  It was Sam who managed to convince her that she must separate her life from theirs. He walked her to the gates alone and talked to her.

  ‘We will be pardoned,’ he insisted. ‘But you must not wait for that, Mary. Us four won’t stay together when we are released, we’ve been held together this long by circumstance, not by choice. I want to go back to New South Wales, James talks of Ireland. Bill will go to Berkshire and Nat back home to Essex. We have shared the biggest adventure and the hardest times imaginable, but once free that will be just a memory, nothing more.’

  Mary knew he was telling her that they’d only become so close because of adversity, and that was the only thing they had in common. She guessed too that he wanted to distance himself from the others because he was afraid they could become a liability. Deep down inside her she shared that fear, though she wouldn’t have voiced it.

  ‘You saved my life on the wharf in Port Jackson,’ he said, his voice growing thick with emotion. ‘I hope one day I’ll be telling my children about you. But go now, and don’t come back to visit again. You’ve done enough for all of us.’

  Mary cupped her two hands round his bony face and kissed his lips lightly. ‘Good luck, Sam,’ she said tenderly, remembering how she’d once seen him as her safety net. She knew now that she didn’t need one.

  Towards the end of September the glorious weather ended suddenly with a huge storm, uprooting trees in the parks and flooding the streets. It continued to rain even after the gales had abated, and all at once Mary saw for herself the conditions Boswell had described on her release from Newgate.

  The streets were treacherous, cloying mud mixed with human and animal refuse, showering anyone rash enough to attempt walking anywhere. Fever sprang up in the poorest districts and Boswell told Mary that the pits where the dead were taken for mass burial were filling rapidly. An evil stench hung in the air constantly, along with a sulphurous fog that swept in each night.

  Mary was virtually imprisoned in the house in Little Titchfield Street, and it came to her that unless she left for Cornwall soon, before winter set in, she would be here till the spring. Her parents were getting old, and she would never forgive herself if something happened to either of them before she got there. And then there was the call of Cornwall itself, a siren that sang its beguiling song each night when she closed her eyes, urging her to return to where she belonged.

  She would imagine herself standing in the bows of a ship coming into Fowey harbour just as daylight was fading and the autumn sun like a huge fiery ball sinking slowly into the sea.

  She could see the small town rising up the hill from the quay. Grey stone cottages clustered together, with glimpses of the cobbled streets between them, where children were hurrying home before dark.

  Down on the quay the fishermen would be getting ready for the night’s fishing. The landlord of the tavern would be lighting his lamps, and the old men of the town would be hobbling slowly down towards it, raising their caps to any women who might still be abroad.

  Mary could almost smell pilchards cooking, she could hear the slap of the waves against the quayside, the shriek of the seagulls and the wind in the trees above the town. She wanted to fill her lungs with that clean, salty air, to hear those Cornish voices, and submerge herself in the simplicity of village life. She didn’t belong in London.

  ‘I think I must get a passage back to Cornwall,’ Mary said to Boswell one evening when he’d called to see her.

  He didn’t say anything for a while, just sat looking quizzically at her. ‘Yes, you should,’ he said eventually. ‘But I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, thinking perhaps he thought she would have a brighter future in London.

  ‘Because I’ll miss you,’ he said simply, and to her utmost surprise she saw he had tears in his eyes.

  Mary didn’t know what to say. Was he implying he was
in love with her? If so, what was she supposed to say or do?

  ‘You won’t miss me. You can go and visit all those grand friends you’ve neglected for so long,’ she said flippantly.

  ‘I’ve neglected them because they are all shallow compared to you,’ he said, his voice quivering. ‘You have given me a purpose in my life, opened up so many new vistas.’

  ‘That is a lovely thing to say,’ she said, a little overwhelmed. ‘But I have even more to thank you for. You gave me back my life.’

  He shook his head a little, looking down at his lap. ‘I’ve been something of a fool for most of mine,’ he said in a small voice. ‘But I feel honoured that Fate singled me out to help you. Mary, you are the most astounding person I have ever encountered. You have taken what life threw at you with courage and fortitude. I have never heard you utter a word of blame against anyone.’

  ‘There is no one to blame,’ she said tartly. ‘Only me for doing wrong.’

  He began to laugh. ‘Oh, Mary,’ he spluttered, ‘that is the absolute essence of you. If the whole world was to share your attitude, it would be a far better place. All my life I have been surrounded by those who seek to blame someone for their misfortune. I too have blamed my father, my mother, my dear departed wife, whores, drink, lack of money and even food for my failings. I wish I were a younger man and could start out on the road through life with you at my side.’

  He ran his fingers over her hair affectionately, then, picking up a curl, he took a pair of scissors from Mrs Wilkes’s sewing basket on the table beside him and snipped it off.

  ‘A little memento,’ he said, tucking it into a small purse he took from his pocket.

  ‘I’ll keep all my special memories of you in here,’ Mary said, putting her hand over her heart. ‘And make sure you get my friends pardoned or I will blame you.’

  ‘It will come soon,’ he assured her. ‘Henry Dundas has it in hand.’

  On the evening of 12 October Mary and Boswell were at Beals Wharf in Southwark where Mary was to board the Anne and Elizabeth, due to sail to Fowey on the early morning tide.

  It was a windy, wet night, and they hurried into a tavern nearby for shelter. When Boswell had called to collect Mary and her box of belongings from Little Titchfield Street, he had brought James, his fifteen-year-old son, to meet her.

  Young James Boswell had the same beautiful dark eyes and full lips as his father, but he was taller, slender, graceful and clear-skinned. He was understandably shy, but eager to meet her. He said his father had told him and his sisters her whole story, and that they all wished her well for the future.

  James arranged to meet up with his father later that evening, and as the cab rattled along the wet, windy streets towards the Thames, Mary was silent, her mind whirling with misgivings. She wasn’t so sure now about returning to Cornwall, and especially about leaving Boswell, her dear friend and saviour. She glanced at him many times during the journey, sorrow welling up unbearably within her. She knew he wasn’t in the best of health. His high colour and the stiffness of his limbs suggested to her that infirmity was catching up with him.

  She would see Dolly again, maybe Mrs Wilkes too. But she had a feeling that the few remaining hours before she had to board the boat would be her last with Boswell.

  In the tavern, Mary removed the heavy dark green wool cloak Mrs Wilkes had given her. She felt almost as indebted to the kind-hearted woman as she was to Boswell, for she had taught Mary so much. No one in this waterside tavern would take her for a whore or a felon. Everything, from the cloak and bonnet to the warm woollen dress and sturdy boots gave a picture of a genteel governess. Yet Mrs Wilkes had not only chosen the clothes because they were warm and serviceable, but because they made her look attractive too. There was a ruffle of cream lace on the high-necked dress, more lace on her petticoat, and her stockings were a fashionable red. Mary had many more clothes in her box too, and she found it hard to equate the pretty woman she saw reflected in a looking-glass, with the same poor wretch who had once worn rags and fetters.

  As they drank rum, sitting side by side on a settle by the roaring fire, a tender current flowed between them. Mary wished she could find the right words to tell Boswell how she felt about him. Boswell, unusually silent, kept his hand covering hers on the settle, a gesture that showed he wanted to hold on to her for as long as he could.

  The place reminded Mary of the taverns in Fowey and Plymouth, the flag-stone floor wet from men’s boots, the air thick with smoke, the smell of wet clothes overpowering. Yet it was snug, a friendly place where sailors swapped stories, found a willing woman and drank their hardearned money away. To Mary it was fitting that they should spend their last hours somewhere she found so familiar. The following day Boswell would be back where he belonged, dining in elegant places, drinking coffee with his illustrious friends or sitting at his desk writing again, while her boat battled its way through heavy seas to Cornwall.

  ‘I have arranged with the Reverend John Baron in Lostwithiel to give you an annuity of ten pounds a year,’ Boswell blurted out suddenly. He took a five-pound note from his pocketbook and pressed it into her hand. ‘This is for the first half year, and you must go to him next April for the next half, and sign your name as I taught you.’

  ‘But Bozzie,’ she exclaimed in consternation, ‘why? I won’t need it, and I know you aren’t a rich man.’

  Even though Boswell was wealthy in comparison to ordinary working people, Mary had discovered he had spent most of his life lurching from one financial crisis to another. Again and again he had come very close to ruin. It was only luck and good friends that had saved him from it.

  ‘It will give you some security,’ he said. He didn’t add that it was in case things didn’t work out for her in Fowey. Perhaps he was reluctant to point out that was a possibility, but Mary knew that was what he meant.

  She thanked him, the lump in her throat making it impossible to say more. She put the bank note into the little reticule Mrs Wilkes had embroidered for her as a leaving present, and drew out a small package tied with a red ribbon.

  ‘This is a keepsake from me,’ she said softly, pressing it into his hands. ‘It isn’t of any value, but it was the only thing which comforted me during the bad times in Port Jackson.’

  Boswell looked curiously at her, noting the tears in her eyes, and then opened the package carefully. All it contained was a few dried crumbling leaves.

  ‘That was what we called “sweet tea”,’ she explained. ‘I picked the leaves on my last day there before our escape. I kept those last few back throughout the voyage, through Kupang and Batavia, right home to England and Newgate. I wish I was able to give you a gold watch with your name engraved on the back, but these mean more, however humble. Look at them now and then and remember me.’

  Boswell retied the package and put it into his pocket. ‘I will keep them forever,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘But I do not need them to remember you, Mary, you have a very special place in my heart.’

  He picked up her hands and held them to his lips, his dark luminous eyes scanning her face as if imprinting it on his mind.

  ‘I have vowed love to so many women in the past that I hesitate to do so again for fear of trivializing what I feel for you, my dear,’ he said. ‘But true friendship, the purest kind, is sprung from love. It never dies, never tarnishes. It remains even after death.’

  Suddenly a loud cheer interrupted the tender moment and both Mary and Boswell looked up to see the men in the bar greeting another two coming in. One was a small, wiry man of about forty-five, the other tall, fair-haired and perhaps ten years younger.

  ‘The older man is the master of the Anne and Elizabeth, by the name of Job Moyes,’ Boswell said. ‘I met him when I booked your passage. The other is his first mate. I shall invite them over for a bowl of punch. We mustn’t spend our remaining time together in sadness.’

  Job Moyes and his first mate, John Trelawney, greeted Boswell and Mary with great warmth, and it was
clear they knew all about her.

  ‘It will be a pleasure to have you aboard, Miss Broad,’ Job said, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘We know we’ll be able to call on your sailing skills if we run into heavy weather.’

  John Trelawney looked at Mary with frank admiration. ‘You are a great deal smaller and prettier than I expected,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll tell me of your adventures during our voyage.’

  Mary felt a warm glow from his compliment. He was a striking-looking man, with amber-coloured eyes that reminded her of a cat’s, high cheek-bones, very white teeth and thick blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck. His voice was easy on the ear too, deep and resonant, with just enough of a Cornish accent to remind her of home.

  The bowl of punch arrived at the table, and Boswell raised a toast to Mary’s future. As he asked Moyes some questions about his cargo, John was looking at Mary in a way that made her heart flutter.

  She had fully believed she was incapable of feeling romantically attracted to any man again, and it seemed preposterous that she should feel it now on the eve of her departure from London.

  ‘What part of Cornwall are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘Falmouth,’ he said, and smiled, showing his beautiful teeth. ‘But I’ve no one there now, my parents passed on a few years back and my brother has gone to America.’

  ‘So where do you call home?’ she asked.

  ‘The Anne and Elizabeth,’ he chuckled. ‘But if I was to settle down in one place, Fowey is where I’d choose.’

  ‘No wife or sweetheart then?’ She raised one eyebrow questioningly.

  He shook his head. ‘I never met a woman who was prepared to accept that the sea was my mistress.’

  That phrase jolted something long buried within Mary. She looked at him curiously.

  ‘I stole that line from your uncle,’ John said. ‘Peter Broad. I sailed under him when I was a lad. He was a good man and taught me all I know.’

  Mary gasped. ‘You sailed under my uncle?’