The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  I needed to say no. I needed to be sensible and answer firmly. My head knew it to be wrong but my heart…Dear God, my heart wanted it so badly. Kitty put her arm around me, staring up at Theo. ‘The audience won’t even notice.’ Theo shook his head, but he looked undecided and Kitty’s voice grew firmer. ‘All she needs do is stand in the right place. I’ll be right beside her – or just behind the curtain – and I can whisper the lines.’

  Flora grimaced, clutching her belly, the pain obviously getting worse. Onstage, the play was in full swing, the audience laughing. Theo cursed, turning at his cue, striding on to the stage at just the right moment. ‘I no longer know my own house…’

  Close up, Kitty looked older, the deep lines round her mouth forming cracks in her greasepaint. Her gown was dirty, smelling of sweat, the lace old and torn. She sounded desperate. ‘Flora must just get through this scene – then you can switch in the interval. Four short lines – I’ll be right next to you.’

  She must have sensed my sudden resolve as a smile swept across her face. She grabbed my elbow. ‘Here, start getting changed. There’s no time for modesty…get your gown off and put this wrap on.’ She beckoned a stagehand over. ‘This is Alice – she’s an actress. She’s going to take Flora’s part.’

  They began undoing the buttons of my charity gown, lifting the bodice over my head, slipping a silk dressing gown over my naked shoulders. It was not me standing there, but a professional actress, stepping out of her skirts into a change of costume. My bonnet had remained secure and I held the lace to my face, my heart pounding. ‘You’ve seen the way Flora does her make-up – put the beauty patch on your chin and make sure to redden your cheeks. The script’s on the table.’

  ‘We did this play at school. I played your role…’

  She looked up and smiled. ‘I know – that’s why I asked you. Tie your hair back ready for the wig. When the play’s over we’ll ask Dr Luke to check on Flora.’

  The actor playing Hastings was called Marcus. He looked far from convinced, holding out his arm, and scowling at Flora. ‘Not going to be sick, are you?’ She shook her head, and his mouth clamped tight. ‘On your head be it.’ Their time was up and they stepped laughing on to the stage. ‘Ay, you may steal for yourselves next time…’

  ‘Quick – go and paint your face.’ Kitty had hardly time to draw breath. She threw back her head and stepped on to the stage.

  ‘Follow me…’ The stagehand grabbed my arm, ushering me down the sweltering corridor. ‘Careful ye don’t trip – mind them fire buckets.’

  Chapter Five

  Flora reached for the bucket and I pulled the wig in place, the mass of blonde curls cascading round my shoulders. Footsteps stopped outside the door, Marcus peering through the gap. ‘Time’s up. You’re needed.’

  The hot wig gripped my head like a vice; the silk gown, itching me, smelling of sweat but it fitted me perfectly. I was laced to within an inch of my life; I was Miss Neville and I was doing this for Kitty. We stopped in the wings and Marcus grabbed Flora’s bonnet from my hands, jamming the pins into my wig. ‘There’ll be no scene change – we’re straight on after There’s morality in his reply…’

  My heart was pounding. I was Hermia’s child and I could do this. I had four short lines and I had them by heart. I would copy Flora’s walk, the coquettish toss of her hair. But my lines required a change of tone: Miss Neville was resolved not to run away and I needed to sound firm, speak with resolution.

  Kitty was onstage, pleading with the highwayman amidst howls of laughter. Marcus stood beside me. ‘Make sure you speak up…they’ll be laughing when Kitty and Theo leave the stage and we must wait until they stop. Face the audience when you speak – it’s important they hear every word.’ I nodded but I must have looked scared. ‘You’re an actress, aren’t you? Played this role before?’

  I nodded again, this time with more conviction. ‘I’ll not let you down.’

  ‘Ready – now.’ Marcus gripped my arm and I took a deep breath. The glare of the lamps was brighter than I expected; the sea of faces suddenly so terrifying. This was not the school hall, the other parents laughing and praising my production – Lady Clarissa, standing up, clapping, enjoying every minute. This was real, and people might recognize me.

  The laughter was dying and I stared at Marcus. My chest felt crushed, all breath squeezed from me. Beneath the folds of my voluminous dress, my knees began weakening. Breathe, Angelica, take your time. It was as if Mamma was speaking and I caught my breath. Marcus was waiting for my reply.

  ‘I find it impossible…’

  At once, we were offstage, my hands shaking. I must have done it, and done it well. Everyone was smiling, yet I had no memory – one blink and it was over.

  ‘Perfect, that was perfect.’ Kitty hugged me to her. ‘You’ve got your mother’s instinct. Not a single prompt. Here, my love…’ She grabbed the well-worn script, thrusting it in my hands. ‘Just one more line – keep next to Marcus. Then we take our bows.’

  I never gave them the satisfaction of seeing me searching from the wings – every other parent smiling and clapping their hands, all their brothers, their aunts, their grandparents with their baskets spilling over with treats. They would spread their rugs on the lawn for afternoon tea and praise my acting, but none of them knew I was acting still – laughing and joking, refusing their cakes, far too happy to notice I had no one there for me. Only Mrs Penhaligan sensed my heartbreak, leaving her gift of gingerbread on my pillow the night of the plays.

  The candelabras were lit, the pillars of the theatre ablaze with colour. I could see the painted green frieze with its red and gold motives, the rapturous faces as they called for more. Kitty and Theo took another bow and the whistles and cheers grew deafening. A sickening thud almost stopped my heart – Lord Entworth was in the audience.

  He was trying to hear what his sister was saying, his face alight with pleasure. He was laughing, clapping his hands, nodding his approval, and I stepped back, trying not to stare. He was so handsome, his blue silk jacket and gold embroidered waistcoat making him stand out from the crowd. His brown hair was tied in a bow behind his neck, a set of curls framing his face. He stood tall and commanding, overshadowing the many men waiting to speak to him.

  A movement caught my eyes and panic seized me. Edgar and Jacob were staring at me, trying to catch my attention. One moment they were pushing their way towards the exit, the next they were turning round, pointing to the door. They must have recognized me and I knew to get home. I could hardly breathe, edging slowly off the stage, running as fast as I could down the crowded corridor. A large cloak hung from a hook and I flung it over my head, hiding beneath the soft red velvet. What if Lord Entworth had recognized me as well?

  I had planned everything so carefully, hiding my identity, wearing a charity dress. No one except Theo and Kitty even knew my name. The lace had concealed my face and it had been dark in the wings, almost pitch black. Yet, despite the heavy make-up and huge wig, Jacob Boswell must have recognized my voice. He would tell his mother – he would threaten to tell Father.

  I dragged back the locks and opened the latch, the night air cooling my burning cheeks, a welcome respite after the smoke-filled theatre. The drizzle had stopped, long black clouds pointing like fingers across the moon. The line of carriages still stretched down the street, the coachmen rolling dice in the glow of the street lamps. I pulled the cloak around me and began to run, my soft shoes making no sound. Molly had the key but the latch on the larder window was easy to undo. I would take the lane round the leat so as not to be seen. I would be in bed and pretend they had woken me.

  Boots were racing across the cobbles behind me, a volley of shouted oaths and I ran faster. A hand grabbed me and Jacob Boswell swung me round. ‘It’s back here.’

  Edgar was halfway down the row of carriages, holding open the door. He was not angry but giggling, hanging breathlessly to the handle, doubling up with laughter. ‘A promise is a promise,’ he seemed to be
saying. He sounded drunk, unreasonably excited.

  Jacob’s grip was painful. He began pulling me towards the coach, forcing me through the door. His hand pressed against my thigh and I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, thrusting me forward so violently I had to fling out my hands to prevent landing on my face. In the soft glow of the lamplight, they crammed in beside me, Edgar missing his footing, giggling still, heaving himself on to the seat but unable to stay upright.

  The door slammed and Jacob lifted his cane to bang on the roof. Now their scolding would start. They would delight in their discovery, make me pay. I had just handed Jacob Boswell the perfect weapon to use against me and I seethed in silent anger, furious at my foolishness.

  The coachman called to the horses and the coach jerked forward, the wheels jolting over the cobbles. My departure had been quick and swiftly executed. Edgar was whooping in delight but Jacob remained silent. In the darkness, his hand reached for my ankle, slipping up the inside of my skirts. It burned my knee, moving up my thigh.

  His whisper stopped my protest. ‘You weren’t trying to run away from us, were you, Flora? A promise is a promise.’ His voice hardened. ‘Stay still, for God’s sake…’

  Chapter Six

  I stared ahead, his fingers fumbling with my garter. Edgar was too far gone with drink to recognize me, he was hardly focusing, but Jacob Boswell was completely sober. One hand was slipping beneath my stocking, the other pulling back my wig, exposing my neck to his hot breath. Disgust tore through me – this was how they behaved, this the sport they craved.

  The coach began rattling down the street and across the new bridge. Cobbles gave way to rough stones and I glanced through the window, desperate to follow our direction. The water glinted black in the silver moonlight and I recognized the route we were taking – it was the road to Malpas.

  Jacob’s deft fingers slipped under my stocking and I knew to sound playful. I must toss my blonde wig and giggle. I must copy Flora’s accent, use the words she used. I must purse my painted lips and pout, flutter my false lashes. ‘Sir Jacob! Goodness me…don’t you think that’s just a tiny, tiny bit naughty? And here’s me thinking you were proper gentry, inviting me to a fine supper with fine wines!’ I reached down, pulling his hand away, giving it a disapproving tap. Smoothing out my petticoats, I managed a pout. ‘You’ve not said a word about my acting. Was I good?’ I nudged him in the ribs, giggling, pulling down my hood. ‘Just a tiny, tiny bit good?’

  He drew back, his eyes unsmiling. He showed no sign of recognition, reaching instead into his pocket for an enamel snuffbox. ‘You were excellent, my dear. You stole the show.’ He drew in the snuff, leaning towards me.

  ‘And the singing, Sir Jacob? Did you sing along with Tony Lumpkin?’ They must be taking me to their inn. The moment we stopped, I would run, climb a tree, hide all night if necessary.

  He slumped back against the leather, drawing in more snuff. ‘A fine supper and fine wines.’ It sounded more like an accusation, not a question.

  ‘I’m that hungry, Sir Jacob – those oysters were just to get me through the performance.’ Another giggle, another shrug of my shoulders.

  ‘Have it your way. I suppose you’ll want money, as well.’

  In the darkness my heart screamed. Edgar was laughing, colluding, sprawling across the seat in what seemed liked betrayal. His legs were spread wide, his waistcoat unbuttoned; dissolute, unprincipled, everything Mamma would have hated. Neither of them had morals, nor manners, yet Jacob’s coldness seemed somehow worse. He took another pinch of snuff.

  The river was lost to darkness, the moon obscured by the overhead branches. The carriage lamps lit the trunks of the trees along the riverbank and an owl swooped from the darkness. A streak of white plumage flew alongside us and Edgar whooped in delight, heaving down the window, baying back at the owl like a wolf: my brother, howling like some crazed animal. I wanted to haul him back, shake some sense into him. Lord Entworth must have seen him. Everyone must have seen him.

  The coach was slowing, the horses coming to a stop. The smell of brackish water mingled with woodsmoke. Ships lay to anchor on the black water, moonlight bathing the decks in silver light. I recognized the distinctive horseshoe bend and knew we were in Malpas – two miles from home. Jacob grabbed the handle and opened the door, jumping to the ground. He reached up, slipping his hands round my waist. Light was shining through the windows of the nearby inn; men were laughing, a fiddler playing. There was no wind, not a ripple on the water. Ships lay moored against the wooden quay, men roasting fish on the griddle of an open fire. I could hear the splash of oars as men rowed to their ships, their voices carrying across the stillness.

  ‘Wait…’ Edgar fell from the coach, trying to regain his balance.

  Black curls hung limply across his face, his shoulders slumped: my brother, staggering like a drunk, his shirt untucked, wine stains ruining his silk waistcoat. I wanted to grab him, shake him, tell him exactly what I thought, but Jacob Boswell had my arm in a vice-like grip. He was pushing me towards the inn, his breath short and sharp. The Heron Inn: I had seen it from the river. More a collection of ancient cottages jammed tight to the bend, somehow kept upright by cross-beams and buttresses. A lamp burned by the front door and I turned my face from the glare, pulling my hood lower.

  ‘Not in there, round the back.’ Jacob drew me from the door, forcing me down the side entrance where a man lay slumped across some steps. Jacob kicked him to one side, opening the door, forcing me into a dimly lit room. Pungent tobacco fumes caught my throat, the sweet, sickly smell stinging my eyes, and I started to cough.

  In the darkness I could make out the shapes of bodies – men and women sprawled on cushions, the women half-dressed, the men lolling to one side. Brass urns lay scattered among the cushions, thin coils of smoke rising from the mouthpieces. A man was grunting and I recoiled in disgust; the woman was laughing, the man ripping her bodice, exposing her breasts. The door slammed shut and pain shot through my wrist.

  Jacob jerked me forward. Through an open door, a man was filling jugs with ale; there were tables, men drinking, a fiddler playing. His grip tightened but I put up no resistance, following him through the door and into the taproom. Lamplight lit the faces of the men round the tables. They looked like sailors – sunburned, rough; sailing up on the high tide, down on the ebb. This was the stopping point, the depth to Truro too shallow for large ships. Here, they unloaded their cargo on to mules, or swapped to boats with shallower keels.

  Serving girls swooped like swallows between the seated men, holding large jugs of ale high in the air. They were laughing, calling out, dodging the slaps to their buttocks. Women were sitting on men’s knees, everyone playing cards or rolling dice. The heat burned my face, my wig and heavy skirts acting like a furnace. No one seemed to notice I was dressed for the theatre, my face painted, the large patch on my chin. They were all too busy eating and drinking, smoking clay pipes, banging the tables to demand more ale. I turned in horror. Edgar was no longer behind me. The door was shut. He must have stayed in that vile room with the velvet cushions and the stinking smoke.

  Jacob’s grip was like iron. A large oak staircase swept up the side of the room and his thighs pressed against my skirt, forcing me between the tables and up the staircase. We were halfway to the top, my chances of escape diminishing by the minute. ‘Sir Jacob…a fine dinner…you promised me a fine dinner.’ Doors led from an upper gallery, a lamp burning against the wall and in the glow of the lamp, I saw his lips clamp into a thin line. Hatred burned his eyes. ‘Wait…stop.’

  He took no notice, forcing me along the corridor and I knew my time was up. I had to tell him the truth, take the consequences of my action. He would ask for money, accounts would follow. ‘Sir Jacob—’

  A door burst open and a woman knocked into him. She was clearly drunk, swaying to keep herself from falling. ‘For Christ’s sake, woman.’

  The laces of her bodice were undone, her breasts in danger of springi
ng loose. She was laughing, steadying herself, her tousled hair splaying around her bare shoulders. ‘Whoops… sorry, sir…’ Her eyes were half closed, her cheeks pale, a mole prominent above her upper lip. ‘Whoops. Sorry, sir… if ye’ll just excuse me, I need some vinegar…’ Her goblet of wine was in danger of spilling, her legs unsteady as she leaned over the banister. Her voice was hoarse. ‘Landlord – bring vinegar. Did ye hear? Bring vinegar fer a wasp sting…’

  Behind us, a voice bellowed through the open door, ‘Not vinegar. Get mud…mud for a poultice.’

  Jacob fumbled for his key. ‘Sir Jacob, I’m not—’ I stopped. The woman was staggering down the stairs, sipping from her goblet. Flora had an almost breathless way of speaking and I knew I must try one last time. Reaching up, I caressed his neck. ‘Maybe I can wait for supper…but how about a tiny, tiny glass of wine?’ I drew my finger down the buttons on his waistcoat. ‘Why don’t I get out of this wig and heavy gown… and you…go…and get us…some wine?’

  A pulse throbbed in his neck. The key turned and he opened the door, thrusting me forward so violently I stumbled and fell. The door slammed, the key turning once, twice, locking me in. He knew I was going to run. He knew. To lock a woman in his room against her will; he was a monster, turning my brother into a monster. Moonlight flooded the room, lighting the bed, the dressing table, the wardrobe. A pile of travelling boxes lay stacked in a corner, a chair by the window, and I picked myself off the floor, going straight to the leaded casement. I had squeezed through smaller; it all depended on the drop.

  The window faced away from the river and I leaned out, desperate at what I saw – too steep a drop. The thatch above was out of reach, so, too, the porch over the back door. It must be the kitchen courtyard. Sloping rooves covered several outhouses, a collection of hogsheads collecting rain water. Empty beer barrels lay on their side, a pile of logs stacked in an untidy heap. An arch led through to the stables. I could hear horses, smell the dung, and my panic rose. There was no ledge, no ridge. No foothold – nothing to grab. The best I could expect was a broken leg.