by Nicola Pryce
‘Will you row me ashore?’
‘Someone will be along shortly.’
‘But I mustn’t be seen. Arnaud, you promised me.’
‘You’ll not be seen. Not if you keep your hood up. I’ll tell him you’re a maid who needs to get back to Pendenning. Our passenger must go, too.’ His voice dropped. ‘Take that ring off – at least until you get home.’
I slipped the hateful ring from my finger. ‘They’ll be cross there’s nothing here.’ My voice was firm, no quavering, no sign of how empty I felt. ‘What were you meant to bring back? Brandy…lace…Marseilles silk?’
He shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes looked wary. ‘There’ll be more, soon enough.’ He turned to search the shore. ‘Our lanterns will soon be seen – watch out for a signal.’
The wind was full of moisture, the black clouds heavy with rain. In the east, the first streaks of dawn were lifting the night sky. It was so wet, so cold – a far cry from the beauty of the reed-fringed bay. I pulled my cloak around me, staring across the darkness. We were hardly moving, just rising and falling, the smallest sail fluttering in the wind above us. ‘There!’ I shouted.
A lamp flashed and went out – another flash, then two, then four. Arnaud slipped from my side, holding up a wash board in front of the lowest lamp. He counted three, flashing the light six times. The light on the shore dipped three times. Arnaud responded with another three flashes. The lamp on the shore was raised to the right.
‘Put the ladder down, Jacques – I’ll get our passenger.’
Across the darkness, I could see a lamp come slowly towards us, low on the waterline, one moment there, the next hidden by the waves. Arnaud held the man carefully in his arms, balancing with one foot on the gunwale, the other on deck. The splashing of the oars got closer, a boat bumped against the side.
‘There’s nothing for you,’ Arnaud shouted over the side. ‘Everything was taken – there’s just this anker of brandy for your trouble. But we’ve a lass to get home and this gentleman needs our help. Defending his brandy has left him in need of attention.’
‘Better get him aboard then, sir.’ The man sounded displeased. He had broad shoulders, a thick-set neck and white hair beneath his cap. Tying the rowing boat to the ladder, he stopped when he saw me. ‘Who is she?’
‘A maid from Pendenning – it’s alright, she won’t talk.’ Arnaud smiled and I felt myself blush. ‘They knew we were coming – took the lot before we got there.’
‘Best get them ashore. The Revenue’s sniffin’ about like no-one’s business – all hell’s let loose. Ye can’t breathe now without some idiot askin’ questions…no…stay as ye are, I’ll bring him down.’ He climbed over the gunwale with the agility of a man half his age and relieved Arnaud of his burden.
Arnaud’s voice sounded strained. ‘Are you ready, Miss Smith?’
I felt strangely like crying. No, I was not ready to go back to those stuffy rooms with windows through which I could only look. To doors that locked. To have my every thought dictated, my every move controlled. Only Charity was drawing me back – my love for Charity, nothing else. The rowing boat tossed against the hull, the two men safely on board. This was how it began, how I tasted how life could be lived.
‘Yes, of course I’m ready. Goodbye, Captain Lefèvre.’
I could not thank him. He was a smuggler, a profiteer, disobeying Sir James’ express instructions, his gain more important than my safety. How could I tell him I appreciated his gentle manners, his intelligence, his humour? The way he cooked. His beautiful wine glasses, his delicate china. How could I thank him for making me feel so alive? For allowing me to be the person I had always yearned to be. I held the rail with both hands, preparing to descend the ladder.
‘That’s no way to say goodbye,’ he said, lifting me high in his arms, his lips brushing against my ear. ‘A maid would snatch a final kiss and we must make it look real.’ He swung me over the side, carrying me down the ladder, placing me gently in the rowing boat next to the injured man. His eyes were burning, staring at me with the same intensity they had done the night before. He reached for my hand, holding it against his lips. ‘Goodbye, Miss Smith.’
I snatched my hand away, turning my face to the cooling breeze, staring across the sea to the hidden cove, stiff, upright, refusing to look back. I was heading back to my life of privilege and plenty, to my beloved sister, yet I wanted to cry. I was not some lovelorn maid, seduced by a smile, by burning eyes. I was not going to make a fool of myself over a smuggler who knew maids would come back for one last, lingering kiss. I would forget the birds we might have watched, the seas we might have crossed. I would forget the way my heart jumped, the way he seemed to read my thoughts. My tears were selfish, indulgent, that was all – I was crying for my freedom.
This was the second time the man’s head lay in my lap. Fine cheekbones, strong chin, long fingers with manicured nails, but my eyes were so blurred, I could hardly see. The boat scraped shingle, Jago secured the oars and leapt from the side. Behind him stood a yawning black cave, a wagon at its entrance. ‘I’ll take him. Wait in the wagon with him while I hide the boat.’
It was a small wagon, just a farm cart, full of straw and chicken feathers. Jago whipped the reins and we jolted forward, the mule struggling up the steep incline. A thick canopy of branches arched above us; the wheels splashed through water. It smelt dank, of mouldy leaves and rotting vegetation, each jolt bringing a curse from Jago and a frown on the face of the man lying beside me. He was covered with a rough sack, his face only just visible, but the jolting was clearly waking him.
‘I’ll take ye as far as the east gate…’ Jago was scowling round at me. ‘It’s not like the captain to get distracted by a woman – not one word, ye understand? One squeak and ye’re as good as dead. Understand?’ I nodded, drawing the cloak round me. He could be sure of that. Not one word. I would never tell anyone, not even Charity. I was far too sensible to risk the scandal.
The canopy was thinning, the trees parting as the ground levelled. We were on the cliff-top, the clouds black in the grey sky. The air smelt of grass and I took a deep breath, desperate to control the fear rising within me. The thought of my reception churned my stomach. The wagon became steadier, the path growing wider as we left the cliff-top, dropping down to a vale. Horned cattle grazed the pastures, large white goats stood tethered to the wayside. Cold penetrated my cloak. Ahead of us lay a gate-house. A bucket clattered, a cockerel called hesitantly into the early dawn. In a pen two pigs lay sleeping in a muddy stye. Across the yard, a dog barked and a woman stopped drawing water from a well to turn and watch. The injured man opened his eyes. He looked terrified. ‘Où suis-je? Qui êtes-vous?’
‘Vous êtes en Angleterre…vous êtes en sécurité,’ I replied. He seemed to hear me, falling back against the rough sacking, clearly having exhausted all strength. Jago was watching me, his eyes hostile.
‘Ye speak French?’ I did not answer, but climbed quickly out of the wagon, balancing on the small ledge before I jumped. In front of me, the long road stretched through the park.
Yes, I spoke French. I read Latin. I was educated. I played the pianoforte to perfection. I had a trained soprano voice. I could embroider exquisitely, sketch moderately and knew exactly how to behave at dinners. I had a fine figure, impeccable breeding, and, give or take the odd outburst, never put a foot wrong. I was an accomplished horsewoman, had good teeth, a straight back and excellent child-bearing hips.
My parent’s most valuable asset had returned.
North-West by North
Chapter Fourteen
Pendenning
Saturday 9th November 1793, 4:45 a.m.
The heavy clouds were passing, daylight slowly breaking. It had been raining, puddles pooled on the drive and droplets still lingered on the grass. With every step my fear rose. No-one could disappear for thirty-six hours without dire consequences. Across the parkland I could see the outline of the house ahead of me, the clock tower silh
ouetted against the dawn. I looked round, hesitating. A well-used track lay to my right but if I crossed the park, I could be seen from the house.
Fear clouded my thinking but, wrapping my cloak around me, I stepped over the stile and braved the muddy path. It began to get firmer, drier, more structured as it neared the house. Privet bushes began lining the sides and I thought the bench in the alcove looked familiar. I turned a bend, relief flooding through me – of course, the Little Cottage. Fate had taken me to the exact spot where I should have thought to go.
George Pelligrew had built the cottage for his wife. Charity and I often visited it to take tea with Georgina and Mrs Jennings, but we left it for Georgina to play in. It was perfect for a twelve year old, a grown-up dolls’ house really; the thatched roof, the pointed windows, the stone porch – fashioned more like a witch’s house than a cottage. In the half-light gargoyles grinned down at me, grotesque and evil but I stared at the ornate door, my heart soaring. It was ajar, candlelight filtering through from the room behind. I crept carefully forward, peeping through the leaded windows – a maid was tidying the room.
She screamed as I entered, clamping her hands against her mouth. ‘Oh, ye made me jump. Scary enough without ye frightenin’ me like that.’ I must have looked a sight. I pulled my hood from my head, checking my hat was still in place. Her eyes widened, her shoulders hunched and her hands flew to her mouth. She dropped a curtsey, as pale as if she had seen a ghost. ‘Oh…m’lady…’
‘Don’t be scared, I’ve been for a walk. Are there rumours I’m missing?’
‘Ye was missin’ – ye was thrown from yer horse…ye’ve been recoverin’…’ She could hardly bring herself to look at me but stood staring at her feet, her thin hands clutching the starched white apron that seemed to swamp her. What was she, twelve, thirteen? Her jet black hair was scraped beneath her mob cap, dark shadows circled her eyes. She was pale, painfully thin, her hands red and sore.
‘It’s alright, you can stop curtseying. What’s your name?’ I had never asked a servant’s name before.
‘Ella, if ye please…’
I looked round the room – a recent fire, disturbed cushions on the chaise longue. The remains of a tea tray – four cups and saucers, three plates with cake crumbs, one with an un-tasted slice of Madeira.
‘Shall…shall…I carry on, m’lady…only we’re that pushed. That’s why I’ve come so early…I should of cleared all this yesterday but with all the fuss…’
‘The fuss of my accident?’
‘No, the extra cleanin’…gettin’ the rooms ready fer guests…it’s been that hard…’ She looked as if she would cry, her thin lips puckering in fear.
‘Carry on, by all means – don’t let me stop you.’
Georgina’s dolls’ house stood open – a beautiful Palladian dream, three stories high, nine windows wide with a portico, a colonnade, and seven Greek statues guarding the roof. She had insisted on bringing it with her. The interior was decorated to match our Richmond house, wallpapered in Chinese silk, replica tapestries, matching drapes. The figures were made of porcelain, dressed in silk and lace. I picked them off the floor, putting them carefully back on their delicate mahogany chairs.
There was only one candle, so I lit another and left Ella sweeping the grate, entering instead the tiny back room. There was nothing there, just a simple pine table with a pewter jug and a clay candle stick. There was no window, just a small cupboard with a round brass knob. I turned to go, but the brass knob glinted in the candlelight, catching my eye. My curiosity rose – the brass was worn smooth with the patina of regular use. I could not resist a second look so, squeezing round the table, I pulled the knob. Not a cupboard, but a narrow staircase with small wooden steps twisting out of sight. Jars, a block of soap and a few cloths lay tucked against the sides, but they were definitely steps.
I gathered up my skirts, ducking my head to squeeze through the narrow door. The steps were steep, turning sharply, opening to a tiny attic tucked beneath the eaves. I held the candle up. A huge unmade bed took up most of the space, the bedclothes tumbling to the floor in a jumbled mess. Who could possibly have the audacity to come up here? One of the servants, no doubt, perhaps someone from the stables; either way, my cheeks began burning, my imagination taking flight. None of us knew this room existed but whoever had found it knew it made the perfect lovers’ nest. I began smiling, amazed by my good luck. I would have to tidy it up, of course, un-rumple the sheets, tuck in the eiderdown.
Downstairs, the room was back in shape, the grate gleaming. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Yes, m’lady—’
‘Don’t keep curtseying – you’ll upset your tray. Here, let me take it, you’ve got far too much to carry.’ The maid seemed reluctant to hand me the tray but I gripped it firmly, surprised by how heavy it was. ‘Can you get me back to the house without anyone seeing me? My morning walk’s ruined my gown and I don’t want to be seen in such a state. I like early morning walks, don’t you?’
She looked at me as if I was insane. ‘I’ve too many jobs to go walkin’.’ Her dark eyes looked exhausted, her face pinched and thin. ‘Do ye want to use the servant’s stairs? Only no-one will see ye then – it’s just the maids what’s up – Mrs Pumfrey don’t come down till six.’
‘That will do very well. I’d rather people didn’t see me like this.’
‘Don’t mind me, m’lady. I’ll not tattle.’ She searched in her apron pocket, bringing out a large key.
‘Thank you.’ I put the tray down, pulling the hood back over my face. Behind me, the clock started to chime. Half past five.
The household was slowly waking, lanterns beginning to glow in the courtyard. I knew the stables well but had never ventured into the myriad of outbuildings with their painted doors and grilles across the windows. Ella put down her mop and bucket, turning to take the tray. ‘I’ll put this in the scullery then we’ll go through the laundry.’
I stayed back in the shadows watching two maids fill buckets from the pump. They looked so young, barely awake as they lifted the arm and pumped the water. There must be twenty buckets to fill. Two wheelbarrows stood piled with logs and I could hear a man whistling across the courtyard. Ella returned. ‘This way…if ye please…I needs take up the laundry so I might as well do it now.’ She smiled, her sweet face eager to please, her eyes plummeting to the cobbles when she saw me smile back.
The laundry room was vast, longer than Mama’s drawing-room and twice as wide. Ropes and pulleys as complicated as any ship stretched high above us. Pipes ran down the length of the side wall and huge water tanks crowded the furthest end. Vast copper cauldrons sat gleaming in a row and mangles stood at each end of the long tables. I hurried behind Ella, the smell of lye catching my throat, stinging my eyes. The next room was equally wide, though half as long. We hurried past the fireplace and a battalion of black irons, dodging beneath the sheets hanging from above.
Three large wicker baskets stood crammed with freshly ironed linen. Ella grabbed one of them and began to pull. She saw my face and stopped. ‘We drag ’em – it’s not far.’ She pushed open a small door, dragging the basket behind her. The corridor was long and narrow with red floor-tiles and white-washed walls. Candles in brass lanterns gave sporadic light and at the fourth lantern the corridor widened, opening out to a vestibule. Two more baskets stood squeezed against the wall, a narrow staircase leading to the right. Ella positioned her basket next to the others and picked up a heavy armful. ‘Yer room’s two sets up – on the second floor.’
I looked at the huge pile of laundry. ‘Are you going to take all that upstairs?’
I thought she might cry. ‘Yes, m’lady…I needs do it yesterday but with all the fuss…’
I scooped up an armful, following her up the narrow staircase. The steps were steep, the linen heavy; my muddy hem in danger of tripping me up. The stairs opened to a lobby where a series of trolleys stood empty. Through the dim candlelight, I could just make out two corridors leadi
ng into darkness. ‘Where do they go?’
She looked appalled that I was holding the linens. ‘That corridor’s to her ladyship’s drawin’ room – that’s to her parlour.’
‘Does the whole house have these corridors?’
Once again she looked at me as if I was insane. ‘Yes, m’lady.’
At the top of the next set of stairs, Ella opened the vast cupboard and placed her linen neatly on the empty shelf. I followed suit, surprised by how heavy the linen had been. She adjusted her mob cap, her eyes huge in the darkness. ‘It’s not yer bedroom, so much as yer washroom…’
‘That’ll do perfectly.’ I sounded calmer than I felt. I could hear footsteps running down the stairs. ‘It’s very dark. Do you have a candle?’
‘Only parlour maids gets candles. It’s this way. Best touch the wall as ye walk.’ I followed closely through the darkness, trailing my fingers along the wall. I could feel bumps, indentations, a sudden left turn. It was stuffy, the heat intense, only just wide enough for two people to pass. When she stopped, I almost bumped into her. ‘This is yer room – the third door after the second bend.’ I heard her fumble for the latch.
The door opened into my washroom. The candles were lit. Folded on the chair was my crisp white nightdress. It was as if I had not been away and I could not stop smiling. This was how Arbella had done it. This was how she had slipped from the house as if by magic. She had discovered these corridors and planned her escape, knowing no-one would see her leave. Clever, clever girl – all that time plotting and we never suspected.
‘Could you help me out of my clothes?’ A look of panic crossed Ella’s face. ‘No…it’s alright, I suppose I can manage. Carry on with your work – you’ve a lot to do.’ If I could fend off a thief and dress a man’s wounds, I could certainly learn to undress.
I looked back at the carefully concealed door. It was so clever, tucked away in the shadows, the lines of the wallpaper exactly matching the contours of the door. Unless studied carefully, it would never be seen. I took off my hat and shook out my hair. There must be a catch – but where? I took hold of my hatpin and ran it along the thin gap in the wallpaper, first one side, then the other. It struck an obstacle and I forced it upwards. The latch lifted and the tiny door swung open.
