The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  I loved it when she laughed. This was real laughter, her blue eyes lighting up for the first time in many years. The sun caught her hair: a glimpse of chestnut in the brown curls that swirled beneath her bonnet. She was wearing lemon silk, her hat trimmed with matching ribbons. Molly waved her handkerchief on the front step and though I waved back, I was thrilled to be leaving. ‘You’re very kind to come and get me.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Of course I’d come and get you. I’ve been longing for your visit.’ Her elegantly gloved hand squeezed mine. Her face had perfect symmetry, her eyes framed by long lashes, her mouth generous and full. ‘It’s a beautiful day after all this rain, but I’m afraid it’s come too late. Papa’s crops are quite ruined.’ She slid up the window. ‘Added to which, we’ve had a stream of visitors and poor Papa’s elbow-deep in schedules for the Militia Ballot. Raising the Volunteers is taking its toll – Papa would far rather see to his land. Did you know Titan took first prize in show this week?’

  She did not know she was so beautiful, or if she did, she shrugged it off. Her soft voice, her graceful manner, her poise, her grace, the slight tilt to her chin, even her elegant stiff back; these were exactly why Father had sent me to Miss Mitchell’s boarding school – at least, that was what he told me. I was to mix with the daughters of genteel families and learn their ways, and you could not get more genteel than Amelia Carew. She was adored by everyone, her innate good breeding and natural beauty outshining us all.

  The coachman cracked his whip and we lurched forward. Truro had changed beyond recognition, the rows of smart new houses glowing like gold on either side of us – the glow of new prosperity, as Father would say. Two years ago, we would have avoided the stench of Middle Row by taking the crowded back streets to wait our turn at the old bridge, but not now. Now everything seemed to gleam, the filth of the rotting houses carted well away. A new bridge prevented congestion, a spacious new street where once there had been two. Front doors had been turned round, houses completely refurbished to face the new square.

  The piles of rubble had been transformed into double-fronted homes with large sash windows and stately front doors. The streets were finely cobbled and lit by oil lamps. Smart iron railings edged the houses, and deep drains ran the length of the streets, channelling the rainwater down to the lock. Water pumps with heavy iron handles lined our route.

  Even the wharf smelled fresher, the new sluices bringing much-needed flow to the upper reaches of the river. Huge blocks of tin lay ready to be shipped, mule packs trudging their well-worn path. We stopped to let a line pass – coal for the mines, copper and tin brought back to the dock, the huge piles heaped on to the ore floors to be assayed and transported to Father’s smelters. Everywhere was iron. Iron railings, iron handles. Iron hoists, iron pulleys. Iron barges. Everyone needing iron.

  ‘One day, they’ll build an iron ship,’ I whispered.

  I should have known Amelia would take me seriously. ‘Will your father commission one, do you think?’

  ‘I hope so. He’s planning to enlarge the foundry.’

  The vale stretched before us – the rich and fertile valley where the two rivers meet. Usually so plentiful, the trees in the orchards were bare of fruit, yet in the sunshine it still looked beautiful. The river sparkled along the valley floor – the Truro River with its distinctive bend curving round Malpas. My anxiety returned. I had written to Father suggesting he visited Edgar in Oxford. He would not get my letter until he reached Swansea but it was all I could think to do.

  In the distance, tall chimneys rose into the cloudless blue sky. ‘Those are your father’s new works, aren’t they?’

  I nodded. Everything we saw seemed to be Father’s – his smelting works, his half share in the mine, the corn mill he had just bought, but not the carpet manufacturer – not yet, at least. The works would soon be up for sale. Their supply of wool had dwindled through no fault of their own, requisitioned by the militia and navy for uniforms, and they had fallen behind on their payments.

  Amelia smiled the same quiet smile she had smiled those seven years ago when she had found me broken-hearted under my bed. Father had no idea how the smoke from his smelter would cling to my silks. The other girls hated me and I hated them back, their snide comments and hateful innuendos only held in check by Amelia. She was the daughter of a lord, the granddaughter of an earl, and though she had stayed at the school for just one term, her friendship acted as a shield, her protective mantle remaining long after she had left. It remained with me still.

  Before Amelia came to school, my plea to put on plays had been dismissed as vulgar, yet just one letter from Lady Clarissa and Miss Mitchell jumped to her command. I had permission to put on any play I wanted and every parent came flocking – all of them unpacking their hampers amidst talk of hunting and shooting, of country balls and fêtes. Not one of them knew how the heat from the furnace could burn your cheeks, what molten tin sounded like when it crackled, how you had to watch for exactly the right texture before casting it into ingots. They did not care that iron bridges could span deep ravines: that men had built barges from iron, that ships might one day be made from iron.

  The coach slowed, lurching dangerously through a stretch of puddles. Around us, the cornfields lay flattened.

  ‘Frederick’s ship is due home soon – Charity’s so excited.’ Amelia’s smile broadened. ‘Frederick hasn’t seen little Freddie yet and Mother wants us all to go to Falmouth to be there when his ship docks. Mr and Mrs Fox are to host a reception in their new house and Mrs Fox says you’re to be the guest of honour.’

  ‘Mrs Fox? How very kind of her – I’d love to meet them. I’ve heard all about them…I’ve read about their shipping business and Father speaks very highly of Mr Fox, but I’ve never met them. They belong to the Society of Friends, I believe? Do you know them well?’

  ‘We’re getting to know them very well – Mother really likes them. She’s on several charity boards with Elizabeth Fox and they definitely see eye to eye.’ Her eyebrows rose and I smiled back. ‘I believe you’ll like Elizabeth Fox as much as we do!’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  ‘And, not entirely by chance, they’ve invited Lord Entworth to their reception.’ A knot twisted my stomach. To be sought by such a man.

  Amelia’s smile vanished and she cleared her throat. ‘You do know Lord Entworth’s duties as Member of Parliament take him to London for long stretches at a time? He’s a very busy man, he’s hardly at home – I only say that because we’re such close neighbours and Papa speaks of his affairs.’

  ‘Yes, I do know…’

  Her blue eyes stared into mine. ‘And he’ll most likely want you to stay behind. His two daughters have been motherless for two years.’

  I nodded, picturing the two girls running round an empty house, listening for their mother’s laughter. Did they stare back at their mother’s portrait, trying to remember her? ‘I can help them grieve – I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. Mel, the difference in our age means nothing – Father was fifteen years older than Mamma and Lord Entworth is only sixteen years my senior. ’

  ‘You’ll be my closest neighbour and that’s every reason to marry him.’ She squeezed my hand, her fine calf-leather gloves the ones I had given her for her birthday. ‘I hope you don’t think I was prying?’

  ‘Of course not, I appreciate everything you do for me.’

  The muddy pools in the road were drying. The turnpike from Truro to Falmouth, thundered along by mail coaches, lumbered along by the heavy wagons of the Packet Service. A carriage passed us and I took a deep breath. Henry Trevelyan would have received his payment by now; it must surely buy his silence.

  We slowed, turning to the left, jolting uncomfortably through the large gatehouse and into the park. Lord Carew’s prize-winning cattle hardly stirred as we hurtled down the long drive beside them. Huge oaks with spreading branches dotted the parkland and my excitement grew. Soon I would see the house with its magnificent ga
rdens sweeping down to the river. I would see the vast sheltered waters of Carrick Roads with Falmouth in the distance. I pulled down the window, relishing the salty air.

  ‘What about you, Amelia? Will you really never marry?’

  Her voice softened. ‘I can never love again, nor do I want to. I’m very fortunate – I don’t have to marry. I’ve got five brothers and they’ve all promised to look after me. I can stay at Trenwyn for ever.’ Though her words were bravely said, grief etched her face, her beloved fiancé, Midshipman Edmund Melville, lost to her on the other side of the world. ‘I’m more than resigned – I’m at peace with the prospect. I never want to leave my garden. You know how much I love my work – can you imagine a husband allowing me to do what I do?’

  She had thrown her heart and soul into her physic garden, sending off for plants and seeds, attending to it daily. Though nothing was said, we all knew it to be in his honour. Each plant recorded by exquisite drawings, her love for him in every stroke of her brush.

  I leaned out of the window. ‘I can’t wait to see all the changes. I’ve not been back since the magnolia and rhododendron were planted…’

  ‘We’ve a new rhododendron walk and a thatched summerhouse overlooking the river.’

  The sun warmed my face and I breathed the scent of fresh grass. Two months. A whole two months then I, too, might look forward to the salty breeze blowing through my own window. I would look out over the oaks in my own park. Lord Entworth was in love with me. Even if I pinched myself, I could hardly believe it. Could I love him back? Could I heal his wounds and love his daughters like my own – be the great lady the gypsy had foretold?

  ‘Angelica…you’re miles away…Sir Alexander Pendarvis is expected for lunch – have you met him? Admiral Sir Alexander, I should say.’

  ‘No. But I know he’s your godfather. We’ve never met…’

  ‘And George Godwin is also expected. You remember George Godwin?’

  ‘Your mother’s cousin? Yes, I remember meeting him.’

  ‘He’s really mother’s second cousin – if that. I’m not sure of the connection. It’s all a bit tenuous and very unfortunate. His family have been struggling for a while – bad debt, bad luck or bad judgement, who knows? Poor George. He really is very sweet, but he keeps coming back to seek Papa’s advice. Papa secured his job for him – he’s a prize agent in Falmouth and he’s determined not to let Papa down, but it could be a bit awkward.’

  ‘Why could it be awkward?’

  ‘Because Sir Alex is in charge of all the French prisoners and, out of necessity, he’s had to put some of them in Pendennis Castle and George believes they pose a risk. He’s told Papa that the castle isn’t fit to hold French prisoners and I believe George and Sir Alex have had words.’ She leaned closer to the window. ‘Oh Lord, that’s George coming up the drive from the stables…’

  ‘Why do the prisoners pose a risk?’

  ‘It’s because the ones Sir Alex has chosen are the ones who dug a tunnel out of Kergilliack Manor – all the way under the yard.’

  ‘They escaped?’

  ‘No, they didn’t escape, but it was a very close thing. They were caught because a guard saw dirt in one their hammocks. They were depositing the earth as they exercised. They’d almost reached the outer wall – they’d dug right under the exercise yard.’

  ‘How thrilling…’

  ‘It was, but not for Uncle Alex! He rounded them up and had them taken to Pendennis. Poor George – I think he’s out of his depth. He’s a prize agent for Lord Falmouth – he says there aren’t enough guards and he’s probably right. Oh dear, we’re going to have to stop.’

  A beaming smile brightened George Godwin’s pleasant round face. He stepped back, almost crushing Lord Carew’s precious magnolia. Amelia waited for him to dust the leaves from his jacket. ‘Mr Godwin, take care. Those branches are quite thick. I hope they haven’t snagged your jacket.’

  His eyes lit with pleasure. ‘No…not at all. I saw you coming…I’ve just arrived…’ The footman jumped to the ground and pulled down the steps for him. ‘Thank you, such a beautiful day. How was your journey?’ He sounded as eager as he looked, his accent not local, more probably from Devon. He had clearly dressed with care, his silk cravat held in place by an enamel pin, a new jacket sitting stiffly across his shoulders. Thick waves of sandy hair framed his boyish face. He was of medium stature, the buttons on his waistcoat straining as he negotiated his seat.

  ‘I believe you’ve already met Miss Lilly,’ Amelia said, leaning back. ‘We’ve had a very good journey, thank you.’

  I smiled in greeting but he barely glanced at me. ‘I’ve just ridden from Falmouth – the roads are very muddy. I should have come by boat.’ He looked down in sudden embarrassment, glancing back at Amelia, trying not to gaze, and my heart melted. Another lost recruit for her long line of admirers.

  Chapter Nine

  Trenwyn House

  Sunday 31st July 1796, 1:00 p.m.

  ‘Oh, there you are, my dear. Come, let me look at you.’ Lady Clarissa put down her basket, holding out both hands and I curtseyed, trying not to look shocked. Her large straw hat was covered in daisy chains, her grey hair loose around her shoulders. Her strong leather gloves were smeared in mud, a large net slung from her shoulder. An apron covered her gown, the hem of which was hitched up to her calf, revealing heavily splattered men’s boots.

  ‘Ah, George – Lord Carew and Sir Alex are with Persephone. Sir Alex has a long journey ahead of him, so we’ll dine directly.’

  She looked round, slipping the net from her shoulder. ‘Henry’s caught his first seabass. They’re just off the jetty – the fish, I mean – not the children. And William caught an eel.’ She lifted the cloth of the basket and six glazed eyes stared back at me.

  Lady Clarissa was a radical freethinker, a believer in Rousseau, her children raised in nature and given the sort of freedom every child yearns. She smiled broadly, looking back across the newly raked gravel. ‘Goodness, where are the children?’

  A movement in the yew tree caught her attention. ‘Oh well, I suppose they don’t want their raspberry sorbet after all. Never mind, all the more for us…’ She turned amidst squeals and protestations, her two young grandsons leaping from the branches behind her. A groom followed, carrying fishing rods and more nets, and she handed him the basket, straightening her large straw hat. ‘All set for tomorrow, Jethro?’

  Jethro nodded. ‘Yes, m’lady – though we’re still four short.’

  The carriage pulled away, leaving us standing on the circular drive. ‘Do you play cricket?’ Lady Clarissa asked George. ‘We need to field a full team.’

  George Godwin’s eager round cheeks fell. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve never played cricket, but perhaps I could learn?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Lady Clarissa kissed her sodden grandsons in turn. ‘Tomorrow, three o’clock sharp. Both of you – ready for cricket practice.’ She turned to Amelia. ‘What about Charles?’

  ‘Charles is two, Mother – I think that’s a bit young.’ She slipped her arm through mine. ‘But Angelica will come – she loves playing cricket.’ I caught the mischief in her eyes, both of us remembering Miss Mitchell’s unladylike shriek as the hall window smashed.

  Lady Clarissa pulled off her leather gloves. She had a distinctive, aristocratic face, her long nose and firm chin softened by her laughing eyes and warm smile. ‘We’ve got just under three weeks to get our team in shape. It’s quite wonderful Frederick’s coming home – that’s three of my five sons who can play, and I count that a blessing. Trelawney must not take the cup again.’

  Amelia drew me inside the large front door, almost skipping across the hall. Sunlight flooded through the huge skylight above, lighting the stripes in the gold wallpaper. ‘It’s the annual cricket match against the neighbouring estate. Oh, mind these buckets,’ she said, leading me up the staircase with its mahogany banisters and elaborately decorated cornice. ‘The top window’s still leaking – that last
storm did a huge amount of damage.’

  She opened the door to my room and I rushed to the window. The river stretched below us, the water so blue, the sun’s reflection glinting like pieces of broken glass. ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful it is,’ I said, gazing across the lawn to the orchard beyond. Two rowing boats lay moored against a small jetty, a ship bobbing at anchor in the bend of the river. It was so peaceful, so breathtakingly beautiful, and I breathed in the salty air, watching the river birds wading across the muddy banks.

  ‘On days like this you can almost see the rooftops of Falmouth – that’s Pendennis Castle.’

  ‘You know George Godwin’s in love with you, don’t you?’ I whispered.

  Amelia’s cheeks flushed. ‘I know – I don’t want him to be and I certainly don’t encourage him.’ The scent of roses filled the room and her voice lifted. ‘Mother’s got plans to build an orangery but for the moment those hothouses are where Mr Maddox propagates his plants.’

  ‘Is he still with you?’

  ‘Daniel Maddox? Yes, but his work’s finished really – everything he’s planted has taken root. The shrubbery’s complete and the saplings are thriving.’ She pointed across the park to a group of young oaks protected by a heavy fence. ‘He’s planted the bigger trees but he can’t plant the saplings for at least three years – he’s got fifty growing in tubs in the walled garden. The more precious plants he tends in his hothouse. See…down there?’

  A jumble of roofs huddled against the walled garden. ‘He’s growing pineapples and melons…and extremely rare orchids. I believe he’s moved his bed in with them.’

  ‘He sleeps in the hothouse?’

  She nodded, trying to suppress a smile. ‘He has rooms in the gardener’s cottage, but he won’t leave his plants. His prime possession is a night-blooming cereus and he’s convinced it’s about to flower. The poor man does nothing but stare at it – willing it to open.’

  ‘How exciting. Will it bloom while I’m here?’