by Deryn Lake
She smiled at the Apothecary and his child. “We leave in ten minutes so make your final preparations.”
“How long is the journey going to take us?” he asked.
About eight hours if we stop for dinner. The coachman says there is a reasonable track as far as Falmouth but it still means crossing Bodmin Moor.”
“What about Dartmoor?”
“He says the road, or what laughingly passes for one, circumnavigates that.”
And what do we do after Falmouth?”
“Pick our way across country.”
John pulled a face. “I hope Rose is going to be all right.” Elizabeth gave him a rather disapproving stare. “My dear friend, you are not attempting to mollycoddle the child, are you?””No, of course not.”
“Then consider that she will have your pistol and mine to protect her, to say nothing of the coachman and Rufus the guard. She will be utterly safe I assure you.”
“And as I remember you are rather a deadly shot, Madam.” Elizabeth raised a dark eyebrow. “You recall that, do you?”
“I recall every detail,” he answered solemnly.
Just for a moment the Marchesa looked disconcerted and John knew that she was remembering, amongst other things, the one occasion when they had so nearly made love. Then she blanked her features, even though just for a second she had smiled a secret smile.
“Most retentive of you, Sir.”
“I am famous for my sharp memory, Madam.”
“How fortunate,” she said, and went back into the house. Rose, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, looked at her father. “Is Mrs Elizabeth cross, Papa?”
“No, my darling,” John answered, and he too smiled. He turned to his daughter. “Would you like to use the water closet before we go?”
“Yes, please.”
“Right.” And he led her away to the somewhat smelly cubicle into which she insisted on going alone.
A few minutes later she emerged and she and John boarded the coach, sitting expectantly side-by-side, awaiting the arrival of the woman known to Rose as Mrs Elizabeth. With a servant accompanying her, the Marchesa appeared and, kissing her hand to the retainers who had gathered to bid her farewell, she, too, got on board.
“You’re not taking a lady’s maid?” asked John surprised.
“No, I shall have to care for myself,” she answered.
The coachman gave a crack of his whip and started the team and they went down the drive at a good pace, then turned towards Okehampton and the mysterious county of Cornwall that lay beyond.
Elizabeth had changed drivers since John had last travelled with her to Gunnersbury, her new man being young and extremely handsome.
“What’s his name?” he asked, indicating the fellow with a pointing finger.
“Jed Ryall. Why?”
“I was just wondering what happened to your other chap.”
“He took a post with Lady Cadogan, who called on me one day and coveted him. I believe he was required for both driving duties and other things.”
John looked at her quizzically, saying “Ah.”
Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Lady Cadogan is a widow and on her own. Does that answer your question?”
“Perfectly. If I were you I’d keep young Ryall under lock and key though.”
“Oh I will, don’t you worry,” Elizabeth said airily.
They stopped at Okehampton for refreshment and comfort, then made their way to Launceston, where they crossed the border into the brooding county of Cornwall. Now the terrain grew rough and wild.
“Is this Bodmin Moor?” John asked the Marchesa.
“Indeed it is and a bleak and lonely place. They say a wild beast wanders about, slaying cattle and sheep. That’s why I brought an extra shotgun.” And she indicated the toughlooking individual whom John had noticed clambering up to sit beside Jed.
Are there any inns?”
“One or two. Do you want to stop?”
“Yes, for a short while. I could do with a drink.”
Elizabeth put her head out of the window. “Jed, can you draw up at the next inn?”
“That would be Jamaica Inn, Ma’am. I wouldn’t recommend it,” John heard him shout back.
“Why not?”
“It’s a haunt of smugglers, Ma’am.”
“Then I insist on seeing it. John, are you game?”
“What about Rose? Will she be safe there?”
“We can leave her in the coach under the protection of Jed and Rufus.”
“Rose, would you mind that?” John asked, but the child made no answer and, looking closely, the Apothecary could see that she had fallen fast asleep.
A few minutes later the coach rattled over the cobbles outside a wayside hostelry. Looking round John saw a two- storey slate-tiled building with another construction at right- angles to the main part. It had a sinister, sombre air as if it could well hold the secret to dark deeds. The Apothecary hesitated but Elizabeth was already at the carriage door.
“Well, are we going in?”
He was about to ask if she thought it safe but could vividly imagine her snort of derision. Instead he opened the door and, getting out, handed the Marchesa down.
They entered a long low room, a fire burning in an inglenook to their right. Round this were huddled various figures, all appearing to be in a somnolent state. Yet despite this, John noticed that eyes appeared to open momentarily and a cough rang out, as did a prolonged fart. Automatically, he took Elizabeth’s arm and tucked it through his.
“Can I help you?” growled a rough voice from a dark recess on the left.
Peering, John perceived a wisp of a fellow standing behind a bar, looking as out of place as it was possible to be. In fact so slight was the man that it seemed as if even Elizabeth could have thrown him with ease. Never the less, he was the owner of the voice from hell.
Somewhat startled, John replied, “A glass of Bordeaux and a glass of… “ He turned to Elizabeth.
“Claret, if you please.”
“Claret.”
He was half expecting the wisp to say that they didn’t have such things in stock but the gravel voice answered, “Take a seat and I’ll bring you your order.”
Elizabeth and John sat in a dark corner and, exchanging glances, absorbed the extraordinary atmosphere. And then, most unexpectedly, one of the figures snoozing by the fire stood up and, producing a fiddle, started to play. Instantly everything changed. His fellow sleepers shook themselves awake and from hidden recesses more instruments appeared. Suddenly the air was full of sound as the fiddle joined with a flute, a drum and a tambourine.
“Dance, Madam and Sir,” suggested the gruff-voiced barman as he brought their drinks. And the next second Elizabeth was on her feet and cavorting wildly. John, unable to resist the music’s insistent beat, got up and seizing her round the waist, began to improvise great leaps and bounds.
Jamaica Inn was transformed; transformed by the sound of that curious band of musicians who had so suddenly started to play. It was as if they possessed some kind of magic, so irresistible were the tunes they produced. Eventually both Elizabeth and John ran out of breath and collapsed into their chairs laughing, drinking their wine, flushed and feeling strangely happy.
Then a curious thing happened. The fiddle player came tap- tap-tapping in their direction and John realised that the man was blind. Of medium height and build, his long dark hair tied back with a bit of greasy ribbon, his clothes, which had clearly once been of quality stuff, now stained and disreputable. He wore a pair of spectacles, the lenses painted black.
“Penny for the band, Sir,” he said.
It was an unusual voice, heavily Cornish in its intonation.
John reached into his pocket and produced a shilling. “Thank you,” he said, giving the fellow the coin.
The man felt it, realised its worth, and gave a bow in John’s general direction. “Very kind of you, Sir. I do thank “ee.”
He tapped his way ba
ck to his companions and they struck up once more. Elizabeth looked at John.
“I wonder where they’re heading. Do you think it could be to Helstone?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. But yes, I suppose you’re right. They’re certainly not resident here.” Elizabeth laughed; a warm sound. “I can hardly imagine Jamaica Inn boasting its own orchestra.”
John smiled as well. “No, I think not.” He stood up. “Come, we’ve tarried long enough. Rose will be waking up.”
“You love that child more than anything, don’t you.”
“Yes.” He was suddenly serious. “Could you love her as well?” Elizabeth gave him an enigmatic smile. “I already do,” she answered.
The bleakness of Bodmin Moor, in contrast to the warm valleys of Devon, brought an involuntary shiver to the Apothecary. He sat, one arm round Rose, who by now was fully awake, gazing out of the window, wondering about the beast that Elizabeth had described and whether it was reality or a creature of legend. In this gaunt countryside - where there was little or no sign of the coming of spring - it was possible to imagine anything.
Bad weather lay ahead for the sky was growing dark and sporadic drops of rain had started to fall. John and Elizabeth exchanged a glance.
“Why don’t we stop somewhere and make the rest of the journey in daylight?” he asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “A good idea. As soon as we’re off this accursed moor we can make for St Austell and spend the night there.”
“Shall I tell Jed?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
And once again Elizabeth put her head out of the window and shouted instructions. Back came Jed’s call.
“I’m glad you said that, Ma’am. This moor is terrible hard going.”
And John thought, as they bounced their way across cart tracks, that he had never known anything so uncomfortable and wondered at the bodily endurance of Rose, although until now she was clearly finding the whole thing a great adventure and had hardly noticed the rigours of the journey.
As the day darkened even further their ordeal finally came to an end. Leaving Bodmin behind them they picked up the old coaching road and journeyed to St Austell in relative comfort. Once there they made their way to The White Hart, a goodly sized inn, and booked three rooms for the night.
An hour later they dined in the parlour reserved for travellers of quality, Rose yawning and tired-eyed throughout. At the end of the meal, John excused himself temporarily and carried the child upstairs, where she went straightaway to bed. As he left the room, however, she spoke in a sleepy voice.
“Papa.”
He turned. “Yes, sweetheart.”
“Are you staying close by?”
“I have the room next door. Now, go to sleep like a good child.”
“Will you come and see me later?”
“You know I will.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.”
He went downstairs and found Elizabeth where he had left her, staring into the fire, a glass of wine untouched before her on the table.
“Tell me your thoughts,” he said, smiling at her.
She looked up. “I was thinking about my son,” she answered.
John did not know what to say so remained silent.
“Rose reminded me of him. He was so sweet when he was young, such a lovely child. I loved him with all my heart, you know.”
John merely nodded, not interrupting her flow.
“Dear Frederico, how they ruined my beautiful boy.”
The Apothecary thought then about the Society of Angels, who had once prowled the streets of Exeter and who had welcomed the Marchesa’s son into their ranks and introduced him to the delights of opium smoking.
“He was so changed in the end,” Elizabeth said, and for the first time John heard a catch in her voice, “that even I hardly recognised him.”
“You must put it behind you, Elizabeth. We all of us have tragedies to contend with. You really must let the memory go.” She looked up at him and gave a bitter little smile. “Yes, my friend, you have had your share of grief as I well know. Tell me, how are you coping. Really.”
“I carry on for the sake of my daughter. No, that isn’t quite true. I carry on for my own sake as well. Because I still want to taste life, to know its peaks and troughs. And there’s another thing as well.”
“Which is?”
“I carry on to see how we are going to end, Marchesa.”
She covered his hand with her own. “What do you mean?”
“You know perfectly well. Every day I am drawn a little closer to you.”
“Do I? Do I know that?”
“Well, if you don’t you should by now. Emilia has been dead for well over a year and.
He broke off, not quite certain how much more he should say.
“You miss her both mentally and physically?”
“I find it lonely, yes.”
Elizabeth leant towards him. “I long to kiss you,” she said with a smile, repeating something she had said to him a long while ago.
“And I you,” he answered, and bending his head took her in his arms.
Chapter 3
At long last she was ready for him, though why the capricious woman’s mood had finally changed John was far from sure. But he did not question it, gladly accepting her eagerness to consummate their long association. Going up the stairs she leant against him and, opening her bedroom door, led him inside. Once within, with the door securely locked, they kissed long and deep. And in this kiss was all the Apothecary’s pent-up loneliness and longing, together with his desire for Elizabeth which had been there from the moment he first saw her.
An unhappy memory came then, of the depths of his feelings for Emilia. Involuntarily, John sighed. Elizabeth must have heard for she put her hands on either side of his face.
“Don’t be sad.”
“I’m not. In fact I am extremely happy.”
For answer she lay down on the bed and, reaching up, pulled John down beside her. For a minute they remained like that, looking intently into each other’s face, then the waters of the dam broke as love finally came to them both and together they entered a world of magic.
He woke in the middle of the night, thinking he had had the most wonderful dream. Then, reaching out, he felt her, sleeping deeply but still warm and soft from loving. Lighting a candle which lay beside the bed, he took in every detail of her. The black hair was spread out like a dark veil, curling and tumbling round her head; her cheek was swept by long thick lashes; the scar which made her at once both ugly and arrestingly beautiful, was softened by the light. Silently, John wept. He wept for Emilia and the fact that his heart had moved on; he wept for Elizabeth that she had had such a hard and difficult life. Eventually though, when he had stared at her for what seemed like an age, he blew out the candle and, holding her close to him, slept better than he had for months.
He awoke early next morning and crept along the corridorto his own room where he got into bed. But he couldn’t sleep, his mind a strange mixture of peace and guilt. He knew that he had loved Emilia truly, yet now he felt completely absorbed by Elizabeth. And this gave rise to terrible feelings of regret. Yet at the same time he knew that he had fallen deeply in love with the Marchesa and that nothing could stop that passion from growing. And then, suddenly, he remembered something that he had once heard; that love was like a river that flowed into tributaries, and he knew that that was what was taking place within him. Though he would never stop loving Emilia, his flood of feeling had moved inexorably on.
He was just closing his eyes to sleep again when there was a tiny knock low down on his door.
“Come in, sweetheart,” he called, expecting Rose, and was astonished to see a very small chambermaid bearing a jug of hot water.
The Apothecary wondered whether to beg her pardon but decided to ignore it. Instead he asked, “Have you seen my daughter? She has the room next door.”
“Oh yes, Sir. She’s up and washing herself.”
John smiled. “I’ll go and help her.”
The girl bobbed a curtsey. “If you please, Sir, I can do that. It would be more suitable.”
“She has no mother,” John said by way of explanation. “My wife died some while ago.”
The maid looked stricken. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sir. I’ll go to the little girl immediately.”
The Apothecary, who had been trying to clarify why it was he and not a woman who looked after his daughter, bowed to the inevitable, said, “Thank you,” and ruefully shook his head as the maid left the room.
Half an hour later he and Rose sat at breakfast awaiting the arrival of Elizabeth. His daughter, the Apothecary was amused to see, had inherited his liking for a large repast in the mornings and was currently tucking into a sliver of ham. John was ravenously hungry and was just ordering more bread when the Marchesa swept up to the table. This morning - in his eyes at least - she looked radiant and his heart gave a disconcerting lurch at the sight of her.
He could not resist asking how she had slept.
“Very well, thank you,” she answered, and ordered tea and toast. She turned to Rose. “Are you looking forward to seeing the Furry?”
The child nodded, her mouth being too full to speak. When she had swallowed she said, “Tell me about it, Mrs Elizabeth.”
“Well, it’s very old, probably the survival of a pagan ritual dance to do with the rite of spring. It’s always danced on the 8^ of May, except when that date falls on a Sunday or Monday when they change the day.”
“Go on,” said Rose.
“Couples dress up and dance in and out of people’s houses and the whole town is decorated with flowers and greenery. Then as well as the Furry - or Floral Dance as it is also known - they do another strange ceremony called the Hal-an-Tow.” Rose looked enthusiastic.
“To start off with, the youths taking part go into the neighbouring woods and gather branches of sycamore. Then they perambulate the town, waving the branches over their heads and singing the Hal-an-Tow song at various places of vantage. I don’t know the words but apparently they are the survivors of a mediaeval sea shanty.”
