The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  In the dappled shade, the path seemed to glitter. ‘The path’s sparkling.’

  ‘Mother’s mirror splinters – she had them sprinkled in with the crushed shells to make the path sparkle.’ We descended the twisting path, the scent of yew trees mingling with drying seaweed. Amelia opened the iron gate that led into the walled garden. ‘This way…through here…mind you don’t trip over Mr Maddox’s rabbit traps. He’s put wires everywhere – they’re attached to bells. It’s made all the difference.’

  Long rows of plants lay baking in the hot sun, their names written on slates beside them. Amelia smiled, thrilled by my sudden gasp. ‘We’ve got twice as many plants now – and there’s the same amount again under glass. Most are doing well. We’ve planted them alphabetically – that was Charity’s idea. That’s why you can still see spaces…’ She started leading me through the herbs, stooping to snap off a shoot, rubbing it between her fingers, holding it out for me to smell. ‘That’s willow bark – it’s taken very well. They use it mainly for fevers and pain.’

  Potting sheds lay huddled against the wall and I saw the familiar thatched outhouse with the painted green door. ‘Does Moses still live there?’

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t manage without him. He does all the propagating – he grows all the plants we send away so, really, I should call it his garden. I come down in the morning to see what he’s been doing. Samuel worked by night and Moses continues the same. He picks up the snails – that’s another reason why our stock’s so healthy.’ She held a bunch of herbs in each hand.

  ‘He gardens at night?’

  ‘More and more – it’s getting to the point I hardly see him. I understand it but I don’t like it. I wish he’d mix more with the other servants but…well, he’s different, that’s all.’ The blue ribbons on her bonnet matched her dress; her stout shoes an important requisite for the stony path. The sadness in her face returned. ‘He’s becoming more and more of a recluse – he sleeps by day and gardens by night. He looks frightening but really he isn’t. He’s as gentle as a lamb – I just wish people would understand that.’

  ‘Poor Moses. Not being able to speak or hear.’

  She nodded. ‘He’s not stupid in any way. He can shake his right hand to say yes and his left hand to say no. And just the other day, he took a stick and I’m sure he was trying to draw in the dirt. It was very jerky, but I think he was drawing two bee-keeper’s hats. Wasn’t that clever? He was clearly asking for a new hat.’

  A deaf mute child, the same age as the heir to Trenwyn House, washed on to their beach in a laundry basket, Lady Clarissa scooping him out of the water without a second thought, giving him to her childless head gardener to nurture and love. The child’s mother must have known just when and where to float that basket, but she could never have guessed her imbecile child would end up growing herbs for every apothecary and physician in Cornwall.

  Amelia pointed to the hothouse on the other side of the wall. ‘We won’t bother Mr Maddox…not today…it’s Sunday and he’s probably very busy.’ The hesitation in her voice was unusual. She seemed guarded, a momentary crease to her brow. ‘He’s just received a new seed catalogue so we better leave him in peace. He can show you his pineapples tomorrow.’

  From the other side of the wall came the sound of a loud splash, followed by a peel of laughter, and Amelia picked up her skirts and ran. I followed hard on her heels, hurtling through the gate and on to the shingle beach. A dog was splashing noisily, making its way towards us from the middle of the river. Lady Clarissa was in a rowing boat, peering over her raised oar, a small child wobbling precariously by her side. Amelia stopped running, waving her herbs in delight. ‘It’s all right. It’s only Mother teaching Freddie to row.’

  The rowing boat was bobbing violently and I stared in disbelief. ‘But Freddie’s only fourteen months old…’

  ‘I know – isn’t he clever? Just look how he’s grasping that oar.’ She put down her herbs and clapped her hands. ‘He’s really getting the idea.’ The tiny child beamed back, letting go of his oar, clapping back at his aunt with complete adoration, and I looked down in horror. A huge black dog was shaking salty water over my new silk gown.

  ‘Don’t mind Horace,’ Amelia said, stooping to pet the huge brute. ‘He looks fierce but he’s nothing but a furry bundle – he’s Charity’s and goes everywhere with Freddie. Did you like your swim, you gorgeous, gorgeous boy?’

  She stopped, suddenly pointing to my feet. ‘Look, Angelica …a lucky pebble – see the hole right through it? It’s yours – pick it up.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be finders keepers?’

  ‘No, it’s yours if you pick it up. Come…let’s see if these raspberry leaves help Persephone to farrow.’

  I woke with a hammering heart. Babies were in the water, French prisoners running riot through the house. I was at a grand reception, Miss Mitchell staring up at her broken window, demanding my parole. Henry Trevelyan had hold of my hand – I was in a coach, thundering through the night.

  The night before, Lady Clarissa had prescribed buttered eggs and warm milk, smiling when she saw I could hardly keep my eyes open. ‘A bit more fresh air and we’ll soon have your bloom back,’ she had said, marching me up the stairs and opening the wardrobe door. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of putting some rather less formal gowns in here – I hope you find something to your taste.’ She had settled herself on my bed. ‘I can be as formal as the best of them when I need to be, but I believe our spirit should remain free. Do you agree, my dear?’

  ‘Yes…I do…’ I had replied.

  ‘Truth, not artifice,’ she had whispered. ‘Truth and beauty go hand in hand. Without truth, beauty is only skin deep, yet we live in a world of great artifice. Nature has no artifice, Miss Lilly – we see her brutality as well as her beauty.’

  I had nodded, fighting an unexpected rush of tears. It was lovely having her sit on my bed. No one had sat on my bed for seven years, not even Molly. She reached over to kiss my forehead. ‘You’re very welcome here, my dear,’ she had whispered.

  My nightmare was abating and I threw back my covers, dashing to the window, pulling up the casement. Moonlight glistened on the river, its silver light almost as bright as day. I could see the bricks in the wall, the glasshouse glinting between the branches of the tulip tree. The scent of herbs and roses was intoxicating, the smell of salt in the fresh sea breeze. Owls were hooting across the river, the rowing boats lying idle against the jetty, and I breathed in the beauty of the night. The tide was high, the sheep grazing the orchard, the cattle ruminating in the pasture beyond.

  I leaned further out. A man was tending the bees in the orchard, moving slowly between each group of beehives, and I knew it to be Moses enjoying the serenity of his night-scented garden. I turned to listen. A muffled sound caught my attention, heart-wrenching sobs drifting through the adjoining door, and I put my ear against the polished wood, pushing it gently open. Amelia was sitting by her window, a letter in her hand. She was staring at the moon, more letters piled on her lap. Her cheeks glistened as she turned.

  ‘It’s all this talk of prisoners…and the fact everyone else is coming home. Some nights I hardly sleep. I just stare at the moon…hoping he might be looking at it too, wondering if—’ She stopped, lost in another sob.

  ‘Wondering if you’re still waiting for him…that you haven’t given up hope?’

  She nodded, her lace nightcap pinning her ringlets in place. ‘We were going to get married when he returned but I wish we hadn’t waited. I wish I’d had his child – like Charity and little Freddie. That way he’d always be part of me. It’s so hard, Angelica.’ She wiped her eyes with her lace handkerchief. ‘It’s hard because some days I almost forget him. Whole days go past and I realize I’ve had a lovely day – like today. Then the moon shines so brightly and I feel guilty… like I’ve abandoned him.’

  The letter trembled in her hand and I took it from her, placing it with the others, tying the blue silk ribbon carefully arou
nd them. ‘Come back to bed, Mel.’ A shaft of moonlight lit the brocade and I lifted the cover, slipping between the silk sheets next to her. ‘Will you show me your paintings in the morning?’

  Her voice grew stronger. ‘I’m compiling my own compendium of herbs – their uses as well as their propagation. I’ve done twenty so far – I’m very pleased with them.’

  I could barely speak the words I knew I must say. ‘It was a dangerous undertaking. There were very few survivors.’

  ‘I know…but two men were taken prisoner – that’s enough to keep hope alive.’

  ‘Two men, Mel…not three,’ I whispered. ‘Seven men were buried…they were all accounted for.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Trenwyn House

  Monday 1st August 1796, 2:00 p.m.

  I cannot remember ever being so happy. My borrowed gown was particularly pretty. It had a blue satin frill round the scooped neckline and lace at the elbow, and was perfect for leaning over Persephone’s sty, perfect also for playing cricket with the boys, and walking along the beach. My bonnet was tied with lilac ribbons and a parasol completed my outfit. Already I was competent at deadheading China roses.

  Charity held Freddie in her arms. ‘Here, smell this one – it’s my Portland Rose.’

  She cradled the delicate bloom in her hands, lifting it for me to smell. Flowers cascaded from the surrounding arbours, butterflies resting on the brass dial of the central plinth, and Amelia continued her explanation of the morning routine. ‘Mother likes to attend to her correspondence and household arrangements in her boudoir until eleven, and I try to spend the mornings painting or drawing – when I can.’ She pursed her lips, pinching Freddie’s fat pink cheek, smiling back at his delighted giggle. ‘And Charity likes to spend an hour or so with Papa discussing the livestock.’

  ‘I help him to remember who we bred with who – cross-breeding’s one thing, inter-breeding quite another. I just remind him of their bloodlines and suggest future matches.’

  Amelia cut another stem, placing it in her basket. ‘We hardly ever see my brothers, William and Charles. William’s organizing the Volunteer muster and as busy as Papa with the estate and Charles’ duties as rector keep him tied up in the parish.’ She handed me a pink rose to smell, snipping the stem short, tucking it above my ear. ‘When we’ve done our morning’s work we come out and cut fresh flowers for the house and then we await the invasion.’

  ‘The invasion?’

  ‘Not the French – the children! Young William and Henry spend the morning watching for the flag to go up. See the flagpole?’ She looked up at the huge yellow flag fluttering from the roof. ‘It’s Mother’s way of communicating to both houses.’ She pointed across the bay. ‘The Old Rectory’s just over there…and Manor Farm is next to that group of trees. Cordelia’s seven months with child so she’s resting…but the boys come whenever they can.’

  ‘What does a yellow flag mean?’

  ‘A yellow flag means the grandsons are welcome – a blue flag means compulsory attendance. No flag means she’s busy and a red flag means she’s making gingerbread.’

  A line of twine linked Freddie to Charity’s wrist. She put him down to totter among the roses. ‘Which means, of course, that everyone comes!’

  A tall, thin, man with stooping shoulders and tousled black hair entered the rose garden; his tweed jacket was patched at the elbow and slightly too big for him, his boots well-worn and scuffed. His leather apron was tied twice around his waist, his hat at an angle. He put down the large earthenware pot he was carrying and took off his cap; his face was sunburned, fresh earth on his hands as he smoothed his hair.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Maddox…’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Carew, Mrs Carew.’ He clutched his hat, staring at the mud on his boots.

  ‘May I introduce Miss Lilly to you? Miss Lilly, this is Mr Maddox, Papa’s plantsman.’

  I had seen him before from afar, but I had never met him. He smiled shyly, still trying to restore order to his tousled hair. He looked round at the profusion of roses. ‘I hope you like Mrs Carew’s rose garden, Miss Lilly?’

  ‘I do, very much – and I’m looking forward to seeing round your hothouse.’

  He wrung his hat like a cloth, stealing a glance at Amelia. ‘You’re very welcome – it would be a pleasure to show you round.’

  We turned at the sound of running footsteps.

  ‘Ahoy there…’ Two small pirates were hurtling through the gate, cutlasses held aloft, their chubby legs exposed to the air. ‘Grandma says to tell you that your brother Edgar’s expected. You’re to come with us…’

  The ground spun beneath me. ‘Edgar! He can’t be—’

  ‘Will you give us your parole, or shall we bind you?’

  ‘No…you have my word…’ My sudden dizziness was making it hard to breathe. Edgar and Jacob should be on their way back to Oxford – what if they told Lady Clarissa they had seen me, and not Father? Lady Clarissa would realize I had lied. I felt sick with fear. ‘When’s he expected?’ I managed to ask.

  William scratched his charcoal beard. ‘Think Grandma said two o’clock.’ He smiled as his cousin tottered towards him and held out his arms. ‘Do you mind if we take Freddie prisoner instead, Miss Lilly?’

  ‘No…go ahead…I don’t mind at all.’ What if they discussed the play? Panic filled me, yet I must look pleased. I must skip a bit, look excited. ‘Goodness…they can’t find me dressed like this – I must go and change. Perhaps I’ll go and meet them.’

  My eagerness taken for excitement, Lady Clarissa suggested I walk down the drive to greet them. I was as far as I could reasonably go, having promised to remain within sight of the house, and I waited in the shade of the magnolia bush, trying not to pace about. The cows no longer saw me as interesting, the sheep long deciding I was not a threat. Bees buzzed loudly on the honeysuckle behind me, labourers mending a fence in the pasture beyond, but I barely saw them. All I could do was stare at the gatehouse.

  A trail of dust followed the coach as it drew nearer and I stepped on to the drive, holding up my hand. Henry Trevelyan slowed the horses and stopped, jumping unsmiling to the ground. I had not meant to look at him, but caught his eye. ‘You received your payment?’

  His mouth set hard as he opened the carriage door. ‘I did.’

  Edgar’s face held a look of mischief. ‘Good. We weren’t sure if Lady Clarissa would get my note in time. We didn’t want to risk your displeasure again.’ He smiled. ‘I need to apologize, Angelica – no hard feelings about the plates?’ He looked almost handsome, his unruly black curls freshly washed, his clothes impeccable. But for his sunken eyes and the pallor in his cheeks, he looked like my brother of old. ‘We’re not staying – just passing really, and thought we’d say hello.’

  Jacob Boswell leaned forward. ‘Won’t you get in?’

  I smiled with relief. ‘No…thank you. Now you’ve apologized, you can carry on. There’s no need to stop—’

  ‘And risk Lady Clarissa’s displeasure?’ Edgar’s high-pitched giggle was back. ‘No, we’re committed. How’s the old bird?’

  ‘Rather busy – I can send her your regards and tell her you were in a hurry…’

  ‘Busy sea-bathing from her jetty? Get in, Angelica.’ The edge to Jacob’s voice made my heart thump.

  ‘I must say, I’m looking forward to meeting the old bird – I gather she’s a hoot. Perhaps she’ll have us running naked round the shrubbery?’ Edgar leaned out of the window. ‘The house isn’t as grand as I’d expected – more like a large country villa.’

  ‘Edgar – don’t speak like that. It’s disrespectful.’

  A conspiratorial look passed between them. Edgar waved my rebuke aside. ‘Get in, Angelica. You must know why we’ve come.’

  Henry Trevelyan held out his un-gloved hand and I took it to stop my sudden giddiness. They knew. They were going to make me pay. Jacob Boswell leaned back against the leather seat, indicating for me to sit next to him, and I took
the seat opposite, staring back at him as he flicked the lace at his sleeve. ‘I believe you’re quite familiar with this carriage?’

  Excitement lit Edgar’s eyes. ‘The thing is, Angelica, we wheedled it out of Molly. Now…you know how these things work. You don’t tell Father I’m not in Oxford and we don’t tell Lady Clarissa you lied to her and went to the theatre. It’s as simple as that.’ He must have seen me flinch. ‘You haven’t already written to Father, have you?’

  I kept my gaze straight. ‘No, of course not. He still thinks you’re in Oxford.’

  ‘Splendid, then we’re agreed.’ The hatred in Jacob’s eyes might once have unnerved me. Now I was ready for it. It was Edgar who upset me.

  ‘You have my silence,’ I said.

  Edgar’s hand began tapping his knee, again the high-pitched giggle. ‘We’ll tell the old bird we’ve come straight from Falmouth. Actually, that’s the truth. We’ve been staying at Jake’s. We’ve been visiting his sisters in his mother’s absence – that’s a good brotherly thing to do, don’t you think? That should gain him favour.’

  Brotherly thing. I fought my rush of fury. ‘To get to Jacob’s house, you’d have to pass through Truro. Yet you didn’t stop to see us?’

  ‘Honest, Angelica, you look just like Father when you frown. Don’t worry – I’ll be all politeness and manners.’ He giggled, glancing at Jacob. ‘The thing is…well, the truth is we’ve run out of money and Father did say we’re forbidden the theatre.’

  Jacob Boswell remained staring out of the window, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. I could still feel the tightness of his grip, yet his grip on my brother was far more sinister. ‘I can’t do anything about that. I’m here for two months and I’ve no access to Father’s money.’ It was hard to breathe, hard to remain calm – to make a man blackmail his own sister. Jacob Boswell was a monster.