by Nicola Pryce
A year ago, I would have run to meet Uncle Alex. Before I met Luke, I would have flown across the square, but now I could hardly walk, my legs unstable.
Mother’s voice sounded strained. ‘It could be any one of them . . . any one of them.’
I knew differently. I could feel foreboding deep inside. I knew this day would come. ‘No. He was looking at me . . . it’s about Edmund – I know it is.’
Uncle Alex had his back to the fireplace; the fire was roaring yet I felt as cold as ice. His words were coming and going, one moment loud, the next lost to the pounding in my ears. Behind him, the mantelpiece looked blurred, as if I had painted Uncle Alex but faded out the background. His voice was louder again, coming in snatches.
‘It happens more often than it should. Delays on both sides . . . powerless to prevent inaccuracies. Keeping a full account of each prisoner is fraught with difficulties. These inaccuracies occur . . . if the source of our information is flawed, then our lists are flawed. We are dealing with thousands . . .’
He often did this, swooping into the house, the first to bring us news. Not swooping like an eagle – he was too slight and elegant to be a bird of prey – but more like a swallow, graceful and charming, his fine bone structure belying his strength and power. Papa, by comparison, stood next to him like an ox, broad-shouldered and ruddy faced, his bushy white eyebrows drawn deep in consternation.
Uncle Alex frowned back at Papa, his simple grey wig and travelling clothes as immaculate as ever but he looked tired, his voice choked with regret. ‘I can only apologize. My information was incorrect. We believed it to be a trusted source.’
‘He’s in . . . London? You’re telling me he’s in London?’
Wounded in action and knighted for exceptional valour, Admiral Sir Alexander Pendarvis came stiffly to my side, stretching out his ebony peg-leg to sit beside me. ‘Yes, and I believe he’s quite well. I have two reports from the Admiralty.’ He reached in his leather bag. ‘The first report runs to many pages – it’s a copy of Edmund’s statement . . . how he crawled to safety and his subsequent imprisonment in the prison hulk below Fort Fleur d’Epée in Guadeloupe.’
‘No!’ I could hardly breathe.
Uncle Alex’s frown deepened. ‘I’m afraid using prison hulks is as widespread as it is deplorable. They use them to protect vulnerable harbours and forts . . . they fly flags saying prisoners are on board to deter fire. Enemy ships won’t attack if there’s a chance prisoners are on board.’
‘That’s terrible . . . do we do the same?’ I was in a daze, half-hearing, half-speaking.
‘It’s not policy but I can’t be certain. We use prison hulks, as you know, but out of necessity not to deter fire.’ He handed the tightly written pages to Papa. ‘I’ve had this copied for you – Amelia can read it when her shock has lessened.’
The room seemed devoid of air and I fought my dizziness. ‘But this is dated a month ago . . . Are you telling me he has been back a whole month and no one thought to tell me?’
It was more of a sigh than a breath. ‘I thought it best to know the outcome of the Admiralty investigation – whether Edmund would be honourably or dishonourably discharged. Amelia, my dear, Edmund was facing the charge of desertion—’
‘How dare they think that?’
‘They don’t, not now. Midshipman Melville was able to give them very precise information and I can state, quite categorically, that there’s no stain on his character. The procedure is vital, though it is so distasteful to you. Every day of his disappearance must be accounted for – there’s prize money to be considered as well as everything else. A man lost to naval records for such a long period of time must fully account for his absence. Most, I’m afraid, are found to be deserters and they pay the penalty.’
A shiver ran down my spine. ‘Of course . . . I understand.’
‘A two- or three-week delay is nothing after such a long absence.’
His voice was fading again, the roaring fire doing nothing to rid me of my terrible chill. It should not be like this. I should be laughing, kissing him, thanking him for bringing me such good news. I should not be feeling so numb. ‘It is if you are in love,’ I whispered. ‘Three weeks is forever.’
He took my hand but said nothing. He was practically family; Papa was godfather to his son who was married to Charity’s sister. He had always been there for us: perhaps not a swallow, maybe more like an elegant reed warbler, forever weaving a strong raft beneath us.
‘The truth is, he’s been under Admiralty jurisdiction since December the sixteenth.’
‘No . . . that can’t be true! How could you be so cruel to keep this from me?’
‘I’ve only known for the last three weeks but I believe it’s for the best. He was in a terrible state – he was taken to Stonehouse Hospital in Plymouth Dock and was cared for by the naval doctors. On discharge from the hospital he was summoned by the Admiralty and has remained in London for the last three weeks.’
‘Did he ask after me? Why didn’t he write?’
‘I told him not to. Amelia, my dearest, he has been very ill. It’s not easy for him . . . nor is it easy for you. The thought of him rushing down to see you . . . to have you meet before I could warn you—’
Papa looked up from the closely written pages. ‘Quite right; difficult decision, but the right one. Best to get all the official paperwork behind him. I must say, they’ve been very thorough. December 16th: Midshipman Edmund Melville saw his chance and jumped from the Portuguese trading ship, the Santa Theresa, which was taking salt to Gothenburg, Sweden. The ship had sought shelter in Cork . . . He jumped from the ship as it was leaving.’ His eyes caught mine. ‘I must warn you, my dear, this makes for very uncomfortable reading.’
‘It does, but to his credit, Midshipman Melville acted by the book. He nearly died from cold, but he made it back to the harbour. He went immediately to the harbour master and requested the navy be informed. The Santa Theresa’s passage had been officially logged and the harbour master verified Edmund’s evidence. A naval frigate took him to Stonehouse Hospital in Plymouth for an assessment, where they kept him until he was discharged to London.’
‘Under arrest?’
‘At the time, yes. But he went willingly – he was expecting to see his father and cousin.’
I reeled in horror. ‘Oh no! He hadn’t heard they’d died? Of course, how could he? Uncle Alex, you should have told me he was in London.’
He drew out a letter from the bag and at the sight of the familiar writing, tears filled my eyes. ‘The first thing I knew about all this was when Edmund wrote to me – three weeks ago. He asked about you, and how soon he could see you. But he was, quite rightly, highly concerned. He had no idea whether you were married and no longer thought of him and he begged me to be honest. He wanted to know how you were, and whether you were happy. He wrote saying that if you were happily settled, he wouldn’t trouble you.’
The letter trembled in my hand. My only concern is her well-being. If you write that Miss Carew has found new happiness then I will rejoice in her happiness and I shall not return to Cornwall. I will lease Pendowrick Hall and bring my sister and Mother to London to save any embarrassment of feelings.
Tears blurred the page. Any other time, I would have held it to my lips, to my heart, to my lips again, yet I felt numb, the room fading around me. I should be happy. I should be . . .
Someone was tapping my hand. ‘Amelia . . . Amelia? I think you better get her a glass of brandy.’ Mother must have used her fan as a stream of cool air brushed my cheeks. ‘Alex, Amelia needs more time – she must consider everything very carefully before deciding.’
‘Of course, she must take as long as she wants. I’ve said nothing . . . only at Christmas you led us to believe, or rather, my wife believed—’ He stopped.
‘I don’t need time,’ I whispered. ‘Edmund must come home to Pendowrick. Tell him we’re waiting for him – all of us. Tell him to hurry, tell him his mother’s ill and she
needs him urgently.’
Papa took my other hand, his voice choking. ‘Amelia, my dearest . . . you must feel under no obligation.’
No obligation? The man I had loved so intently had been reaped with praise for his valour. He had been imprisoned, suffered forced labour on a ship. He had fulfilled every obligation to his king and country and I would just wash my hands of him? How could they think that?
‘I loved him, Papa, with all my heart . . . I am engaged to him . . . we are to be married.’ My words sounded distant, as if someone else was saying them. ‘I’ve waited so long and prayed so hard for his return. How can you expect otherwise?’
Across the silence, Uncle Alex cleared his throat. ‘Then I will write to him. I’ll return to Fosse and keep you all informed.’
They stood in the hall, Uncle Alex pulling on his gloves, and I held back, a terrible numbness spreading through me. Uncle Alex had never taken kindly to Edmund: he thought him weak-willed and sensitive to hurt. His voice was harsh: ‘You must warn her, Clarissa. Men return very changed from war – especially under such circumstances. He’s not the youth she fell in love with.’
Mother’s voice was strong, edged with anger. ‘And she’s not the wide-eyed girl he abandoned with such ease. She’s studied all Frederick’s botany books and has as much knowledge as the best apothecary. She’s intuitive and intelligent, her remedies are widely used, and she commands the greatest respect. I cannot bear to think of her giving it all up to bury herself on that moor.’
Uncle Alex’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘They’re all but ruined – I believe the estate is entailed and until they repay their debts, the income they receive barely covers their costs.’
They smiled as I joined them, Uncle Alex kissing me affectionately before he left. Mother and I stood in silence, watching the carriage until it turned right into King Street and was lost to sight. She drew out her handkerchief, her voice strained.
‘You don’t need to attend the committee meeting tomorrow, my love. Not if you don’t want to.’
In all my imaginings, I had always cried with joy. In the street, in the drawing room, in the carriage, in my herb garden. I would open a letter, or Uncle Alex would be smiling as he walked towards me. Sometimes it was Frederick who brought me the news, sometimes it was my nephews tripping over each other to be the first to give me such happy tidings. Sometimes it would be Edmund himself, standing there, smiling down at me, and I would run into his arms. I would always be crying for joy. Never this numbness.
I wiped my eyes. ‘No, I have to see him—’ I could hardly talk. Hardly walk. ‘Moses has sent those herbs I asked for, so I’ll be in the kitchen making a salve for Lady Melville. Her lips will soon blister, and it’s vital she gets some relief.’
To make Green Salve: take 4 ounces each of chicken weed, henbane, haymaiden and mallow. Pound the herbs and boil them in salted hog’s fat and 2 ounces of almond oil until the herbs soften and discolour. Strain through muslin and cool before sealing.
THE LADY HERBALIST
Chapter Thirteen
Town House, Truro
Monday 22nd January 1798, 11 a.m.
Dr Nankivell’s assistant held his quill in mid-air. ‘Yes, I have that down. Members of the committee present are Dr Nankivell – chairman, Lady Clarissa, Lady Polgas, Major Trelawney, Dr Bohenna, Mrs Lilly and Miss Carew.’
The dining table had been cleared, the sun streaming through the window. Dr Nankivell was at the head of the table, his slight frame lost in Papa’s huge carving chair. A respectable physician of considerable years, he saw the new infirmary as a vital addition to his work in Truro. Bewigged and bespectacled, with large whiskery sideburns, he wore sober clothes and a resigned expression. ‘You all have a copy, ladies and gentlemen? Good, then we’ll present our findings in order of this agenda – without too much interruption.’ He peered over his glasses at Lady Polgas.
Lady Polgas pursed her lips, a disdainful shrug to her shoulders. ‘What needs to be said needs to be said. I was only saying the other day . . .’
‘And discussion must be relevant . . . to the point.’
Frederick had once likened Lady Polgas to a ship in full sail and she had been known as The Galleon ever since. We had tried to keep it from Cordelia but to no avail; even my nephews knew what we called their grandmother. A deep intake of breath, a wobble of her chins and it was obvious Lady Polgas was not going to let that pass. ‘Some of us have more experience to draw on, Dr Nankivell. I, for one, am considered one of the most enlightened – and certainly the most connected – members of our society. My family have influenced the affairs of Truro for generations. My word, I think you’ll find, holds sway.’
‘Indeed, Lady Polgas, and for that we are very grateful.’
Luke had his back to the sun. I could not see his face, not that I dared cast even the smallest glance. Every other meeting would have seen us suppressing our smiles, trying not to raise our eyebrows. Mary Lilly sat beside him, Mother next to me, and the urge to run from the room was almost overwhelming. He looked tired, shaken, sifting through his papers without looking up. Any other time, he would have slid a bag of bonbons across the table with a conspiratorial wink.
I hardly heard what Dr Nankivell was saying. ‘Other banks have offered us more advantageous terms but gambling on shares poses too great a risk for our investment.’
Major Trelawney raised his hand, the red sleeve of his uniform flashing in the sun. A firm favourite in our family, he commanded the respect of everyone in Truro. ‘I’m concerned the amount we’ve put aside as surety will fall short of our requirements. The building costs are escalating – the money left to invest as capital will not meet our future needs.’ His brass buttons and gold braid glinted as he handed us each a copy of his accounts. ‘The annual subscriptions will only just cover the running costs.’
Lady Polgas held up her copy. ‘Is this the list of subscriptions?’
‘And our benefactors. The building costs are listed here . . . the annual subscriptions here . . . ranging from one guinea . . . two guineas . . . up to ten guineas. That amounts to two hundred and twenty-four pounds and fourteen pence a year.’ A strong, handsome man in his late forties, his abundant dark hair was greying at the temples, tied at his neck in a simple bow. ‘The annual subscriptions will cover food, salaries, laundry and so forth, but we need sufficient capital to hold in readiness for upkeep and repairs.’
‘I thought we raised more than this – one thousand, nine hundred pounds?’ Luke sounded flustered.
‘The column below, Dr Bohenna. Six hundred pounds given by anonymous donors, and five hundred and eighty pounds raised through concerts and balls.’
‘Of course. Forgive me.’ He glanced up, our eyes met, and I could not breathe for the ache in my heart.
Lady Polgas leaned her ample bosom on the table, her smile as false as her sweet tone. ‘I’d like a list of all the anonymous benefactors, thank you, Major Trelawney.’
Mother raised her eyebrows. ‘Whatever for, Georgina?’
A heave of her bosom, a responding rise to her eyebrows, a return to her usual sharpness. ‘You may not think it necessary to thank the generosity of those who give so freely, Clarissa, but I believe it to be imperative. I shall write, on behalf of the committee, to each of these generous benefactors and thank them, most graciously, as is appropriate.’
Mother glanced at Mary Lilly, who remained looking down at her papers. ‘I believe they have already been sufficiently thanked, Georgina.’
‘By whom? By someone of little importance outside the sphere of the hospital? These people must be thanked properly by someone of influence and stature in our community. Manners are manners, though many seem to forget.’ Her eyes pierced each of us in turn. ‘The list, Major Trelawney . . . of those who have donated – what shall we say? – a hundred pounds or more?’
This was about more than the committee: this was about the grandchildren. As Cordelia’s mother, Lady Polgas never allowed the feud to
go away. Children left to run wild was how she viewed the Carew influence. Ill-disciplined and ill-mannered, another of her favourite phrases. Apparently, we were too lax with the children, allowing them too much freedom.
A glance of amusement crossed Mother’s eyes. ‘Anonymous means anonymous, Georgina.’
Major Trelawney tried to hold back the list but Lady Polgas held out her hand, her stare pinning him into submission. One look at the list and her smile vanished, her jowls slackened. She must have seen Mother and Mary Lilly’s names on the top. Her mouth tightened. ‘Well, yes . . .’
Any other time, I would have enjoyed a sideways glance at Luke. Any other time, he would have held my gaze, the love in his eyes sending my heart racing.
Dr Nankivell returned to the agenda. ‘Lady Clarissa, I believe you make several recommendations?’
Mother nodded. ‘I showed Mr Wood’s plans for the kitchens to my cook and she recommended the kitchens be doubled in size. She says we’ll need bigger cauldrons and she strongly recommends they bake bread on the premises. Therefore we’d need separate bread ovens. And the scullery should not be used for slops; she’s adamant there must be a separate slop-house with a covered sewer.’
Still reeling from Mother and Mary Lilly’s generosity, Lady Polgas could not let that go unanswered. ‘Your cook is adamant, is she, Clarissa? Is this what you teach my grandsons – to fraternize with servants? To run round like hoodlums – sliding down banisters and playing ridiculous games of herrings? You did not run wild, did you, Dr Nankivell? No, of course you didn’t. You studied and were brought up to respect your betters. And I don’t suppose you ran riot in that shop of yours, did you, Dr Bohenna?’
Luke held her stare. ‘I believe the game is called pilchards, Lady Polgas.’
Her livid face matched her ruby dress and Dr Nankivell was quick to intervene, shaking his head at his clerk who looked unsure what to write. He was young, with a mop of blond curls, his jacket sleeves a little short at the wrists. His cheeks flushed as his quill remained poised.
