by Nicola Pryce
I took a step back. ‘Thank you, Mr Trevelyan, but I’m perfectly capable of walking back by myself.’ He was after more money; the whole lot of them after more money.
He stayed by my side. ‘Most people would have run – from Moses, I mean.’
‘Well, I’m not most people.’
‘Indeed you’re not. And before you think ill of me, I’m not after more money.’ His voice was soft, caring, no hint of threat, and an ache filled my heart. For some terrible, unknown reason, I felt like crying. Yet I had to explain.
‘I thought Mr Lilly and Sir Jacob had gone to the hothouse – but I was wrong.’
‘Jethro took them to their rooms. I saw you run across the terrace and into the shrubbery so I came to see you safely back.’
‘I’m in no danger, thank you, Mr Trevelyan.’
‘What about the danger of enchantment, Miss Lilly? Puck might be watching, Oberon and Titania fighting over you this very minute – the interference of woodland sprites can cause great mischief.’
I wrestled his joyous laughter from my mind, his sunburned arms, Freddie on his shoulders as he bowled to William. ‘No danger of enchantment,’ I replied firmly.
Black clouds once again obscured the moon, plunging us into sudden darkness, and I stood breathing in the scent of roses; it seemed wrong to feel so sad amongst such beauty.
He stood beside me in the darkness. ‘The cruellest of their tricks is their passion for unrequited love – making you fall so deeply in love with someone who does not love you back, or even know you’re there.’ He spoke softly, an echoing sadness in his voice. ‘The pain of enchantment lingers for ever. Mr Maddox knows he must leave, just as I must leave.’
I tried to laugh. ‘Not you as well? Please, Mr Trevelyan!’
He held out his arm and in the half-light I hesitated, not knowing whether to take it. ‘I will only ever love one woman – I’ll survive without her love, I may even grow prosperous, but she has my heart and I’ll not marry anyone else. Not even for companionship. My nephews and nieces will have my full attention and any fortune I accrue they can spend as they like.’
I took his arm. ‘Why won’t she marry you? You seem a perfectly pleasant man – and you’re very good at cricket. Has she seen you play?’
His laughter caught me off guard. ‘You think that should do the trick?’
I smiled back. ‘Well, it’s a good start. I think she’s being rather fussy and really rather silly, so you’re probably better off without her.’
The path glinted ahead of us, his voice a whisper. ‘She’s neither silly nor fussy. And she doesn’t know I love her.’
I swung round. ‘Well, then it’s you that’s being silly, Mr Trevelyan. How can you expect her to know how much you love her if you haven’t told her? You can’t rely on woodland sprites and fairies – a woman can’t just guess. You need to give her some clue at least. Perhaps she does love you but is just too shy to make her feelings known?’
I had spoken sharply and glanced up. He smiled, but not before I saw pain deep in his eyes. ‘I’m too late, Miss Lilly – she’s to marry another.’ He let go of my arm. ‘And I must accept it.’
We walked on in silence; George Godwin, Daniel Maddox, Henry Trevelyan, even Amelia. Love was meant to turn you giddy with joy, not rip you apart. He had a kind, compassionate face and read love poems; a woman should not torment such a gentle man with intelligent eyes and strangely attractive glasses. It was wrong, cruel. In the distance, a dog barked, an owl hooted, and I looked across the lawn to the house.
‘Mr Trevelyan, how long has my brother been in Falmouth?’
‘About a month.’ His abrupt tone startled me.
‘About a month? How come you don’t know for certain? You brought him from Oxford.’
He shook his head, his mouth tight with disapproval. ‘They engaged me in Falmouth, Miss Lilly, and that’s where we’re to return tomorrow. Where they’ve been before that I cannot say.’
An icy hand squeezed my heart. ‘Goodnight, Mr Trevelyan. I can see my way across the terrace.’ I would wait for the next band of clouds to give me cover. If the moon was too bright I might be seen.
He was watching me, seeming to read my mind. ‘Too dark and you might stumble, too light and you’re in danger of being seen.’ He smiled. ‘But I imagine you already know that. Perhaps you should go now – under the cover of this shadow.’
I watched the terrace through the half-light. ‘Where did you learn to play cricket?’
‘In the back alleys of Truro – not with real bats, of course, just planks of wood and a rag ball wound tightly in leather.’
The band of cloud passed, the moon lighting the terrace as bright as day. ‘You’re not really a coachman, are you, Mr Trevelyan? Coachmen don’t tend to read poetry – least not the ones I know. Molly thinks you’ve hit hard times.’ His silence made me turn and I caught my breath. There was pain in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. That was very insensitive of me…you don’t have to answer.’
His voice was a whisper. ‘I’m not a coachman. I barely like horses and they certainly don’t like me. I work for Admiral Pendarvis. He’s my patron and a man I greatly admire. He’s asked for my help and I’ve given it willingly. Coaches are being robbed by men speaking French. We believe thieves are posing as escaped French prisoners, and being a coachman puts me right in the thick of things.’
‘Why would they pose as French prisoners?’
‘We don’t know; to engender a climate of mistrust, perhaps? Many resent the rations the prisoners are given – and people are easily swayed by false information. Falmouth’s a tinderbox at the moment. Just one spark could lead to anger and disorder. Sir Alex needs to get to the crux of the matter and he’s asked for my help – but I must ask for your silence, Miss Lilly. My motives are honourable, even if my disguise is not.’
‘Your disguise lets you down rather badly – your hands, for a start; and those love poems will have to go. You need a bushy beard, Henry, and—’
His smile ripped through me. ‘I can’t be parted from the poetry. I hate wearing a beard and I’d rather not have dirty fingernails, but I like the way you called me Henry. Can we be friends, Miss Lilly?’
A scattering of clouds gave the perfect cover, yet the sheer beauty of the night made me reluctant to leave. ‘Goodnight, Mr Trevelyan,’ I said less sharply than I intended.
The house was in darkness, no candles burning in any of the rooms, and I rushed up the steps, tiptoeing across the terrace. The first window was locked, the second, the third, and panic filled me. None of them would open.
‘We’ll try the kitchen door.’ He was behind me. ‘We need to go round the back. Jethro may still be up.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘The servants will talk…’
‘They may have gone to bed.’ A lamp burned against the coach house, lighting the gravel on the circular drive. ‘We can cut across the gravel and use that gate – mind these poles and ladders.’ I could barely see him but followed his voice, almost bumping into him as he held out his hand. ‘Careful, there’s a pile of tiles here.’
A glow of light beckoned, more lamps burning against the side of the house; we were in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by red-brick buildings. Shadows flickered across a row of closed doors. ‘I’ll try the kitchen.’ In the half darkness, I saw him smile. ‘In the absence of an open window – that is.’
Across the stillness the dog began barking again and I searched the shadows. Anyone seeing me would think me wanton, visiting Mr Maddox, alone with Henry Trevelyan. The clouds broke and a shaft of moonlight lit the ladders leading to the roof. I studied the planks which formed the scaffold.
‘Here you are—’ In the moonlight, Henry Trevelyan’s frown deepened. ‘Miss Lilly – please reassure me you’re not thinking of climbing back to your room?’
I put my foot on the ladder. ‘The hall window’s open and it’s only a series of ladders. The men have been working up there all day and if it takes their weight, it
’ll take mine. I’m not scared of heights, but I am scared of my reputation. Women aren’t silly weak creatures, you know – we’re perfectly capable of climbing ladders. It won’t be slippery and I’ll hold very tight.’
He ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head. ‘I’m not questioning your ability, just questioning the necessity. Some like to use doors, others like to use windows. But if you did want to use a door, the kitchen’s unlocked.’ He bowed formally. ‘It’s your choice, Miss Lilly.’
‘No one’s in the kitchen?’
‘No. The night porter’s doing his rounds. I reckon you’ve got about five minutes.’
I took a step down. Another time, another place, and I would have relished the challenge. ‘The door it is then,’ I whispered.
His laughter sent a wave of warmth surging through me. ‘A good decision but I can understand those ladders must look very temping. Goodnight, Miss Lilly.’
Chapter Fifteen
Trenwyn House
Tuesday 2nd August 1796, 8:00 a.m.
Bethany pinned the last curl in place. ‘Miss Lilly, ye have the loveliest, thickest hair – there, all done. Do ye want both ribbons or just the one?’
I stared back at my reflection. I had hardly slept and a bit more colour would not go amiss. ‘Both ribbons.’
‘There’s no one else up – ye’re an early bird, all right! There – looks lovely. Shall I bring ye up a tray?’
‘No. I’ll come down. I’ll get a breath of air. Are you sure my brother isn’t up? Only, I thought they wanted to leave early.’
‘No sign as yet.’ Her eyes plummeted to the floor. ‘Ye wouldn’t know this, Miss Lilly, least I don’t expect ye to remember…but ye once helped a lady back to her home. She’d fallen through sickness and ye took her in yer carriage… ye called the doctor an’ ye paid his bill.’ She looked up, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Only, that woman were my mamm, an’ we can never thank ye enough…’
‘I do remember,’ I replied. There was love in her eyes and I looked away. ‘I’m glad I helped her, is she well now?’
‘Yes, she’s a maid at Mansion House,’ her voice faltered. ‘We’ll never forget what ye did.’
Unease was making me restless, and staying in bed when the sun was shining seemed a waste of a beautiful morning. Grabbing my cloak and bonnet I raced down the stairs, crossing the hall to the dining room. A French window was open and I stood on the terrace breathing in the smell of early dew. The tide was out, wading birds picking their way through the stranded seaweed.
I crossed the terrace, taking the path to the cobbled courtyard. A groom was filling a bucket from the pump and smiled as he saw me. ‘For Persephone,’ he said, glancing at the gate leading down to the sty.
I walked beside him, lifting my skirt though the path was well brushed, almost as clean as the house. My heart jumped. Henry Trevelyan was leaning over the sty, scratching Persephone’s floppy black ears. He looked up and I caught my breath.
‘Miss Lilly, what a lovely surprise.’
I would have to leave. The involuntary jolt was disturbing, my sudden pleasure making me blush. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ My voice was clipped, my gaze fixed on the enormous black pig with the most endearing eyes I had ever seen.
‘Don’t go.’ His waistcoat hung on a post behind him, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to the elbow. Round his neck he wore a checked cravat and I hesitated, watching him lean over to scratch Persephone with a forked stick. She grunted in pleasure. ‘You can take over if you like…’
The groom swilled the fresh water into the trough. ‘It can’t be much longer now.’
‘Do use my stick.’ Henry Trevelyan glanced up and my stomach contracted. I could not speak, a terrible confusion swallowing my words. I had seen a glimpse of us both as clear as day. It was so real, so joyous, making me blush and I stared at the ground. I had seen us leaning over the sty, his arms encircling me, his face against mine. We were laughing, reaching over to tickle Persephone. It was as if I had willed it, wanting it to happen.
‘No, thank you. I’ll dirty my gown.’
‘You won’t,’ he reached for his jacket, ‘you can lean against this.’
The groom was walking away and I knew I must follow. ‘No. I must go.’
‘Wait.’ His voice sharpened. ‘I’m glad I’ve had this opportunity to see you alone.’ He reached into the pocket and drew out a leather purse. ‘You don’t need to buy my silence, Miss Lilly.’ His eyes scorched mine and shame shot through me. He could not be bought, yet my brother would buy my silence; Jacob Boswell would take everything he could.
He must have seen my hesitation. ‘I’ll only accept the money I’m owed, nothing more.’ He counted out twenty pounds, handing them back. ‘Please do me the kindness of believing not everything’s done for profit. Some things are done for—’ He stopped.
I clasped the notes in my hand, unable to look up. His words had been said kindly but they held censure, even ridicule. He thought me shallow. He thought me immoral. He thought I was like Edgar and Jacob – more money than sense.
I kissed Edgar goodbye with both relief and anger, turning before the carriage had left. He had most of the money I had brought with me and I would pay the rest when I returned to Truro. I could not settle but passed from room to room, a terrible emptiness taking hold. I was not shallow. Not immoral. Henry Trevelyan had judged me too harshly.
The door of the library was ajar and I pushed it open, the smell of leather and polish meeting me in equal measure. Three large windows faced the front drive, the grooms raking over the disturbed gravel outside. Long bookshelves dominated both ends of the room, a table set with sturdy leather chairs positioned in the centre. A large fireplace stood behind me, paintings of prize-winning cattle and horses staring down at me as I ran my finger along the rows of books. The library in Carrick Hall would be bigger than this – and grander.
I had only seen Carrick Hall from the river but knew it to be the largest mansion on the Fal estuary with its long elm tree drive and statues by the riverside. I could organize fêtes and concerts to raise money for the new hospital. We could make our own theatre and put on plays. French prisoners on parole were giving dancing lessons and I would hire one for all of us – even the servants. I would fill the house with laughter. We would give balls. We would have gala evenings with lanterns stretching all the way down the drive and along the river.
Father was not a reading man but I loved books and read what I could. I began searching the shelves, finding no order. The books seemed haphazardly placed, French philosophy side by side with agriculture, military lists stacked rigidly against rows of poetry. I was half-hoping I would not find what I was looking for but there it lay next to a book of botanical prints – Poetry by John Donne.
I turned round. Hushed whispering filtered from behind the half-open door, someone was crying. ‘No never. Course not – but she wants no more said.’
‘But surely she must think…’
‘No – she’s sayin’ nothin and nor must we. She’ll hear no more of it. She says we’ve to put it down as lost, an’ that’s the end to it.’
‘’Tis not the end.’
Sudden silence followed; a scuttling of feet. Charity pushed open the door, her beautiful lacquered stick tapping the ground in front of her. ‘Are you in here, Angelica?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ She seemed troubled and I rushed to take her arm. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘No, nothing. I just wondered if you’d like some company – only with your brother leaving, I thought you might feel a little lonely?’
Something about her smile looked forced. ‘Charity, I believe there is something the matter – please tell me. I’ve heard all sorts of whispering.’
She felt the book in my hand. ‘You’ve chosen something to read – what is it?’
‘It’s the poetry of John Donne. We did his religious poems at school but I’ve never read his love poems. Do you know them?’
&nbs
p; This time her smile was genuine, bordering on laughter. ‘His love poems are very passionate, Angelica – they’re about the physical love between a man and woman. School mistresses don’t let their girls anywhere near them! But I do know the poems and I’d love to hear them again.’ She drew me towards the large table. ‘Will you read them to me?’
I helped her into a chair and opened the book. ‘Something’s gone missing, Charity. I heard the maids talking about it. Something’s lost – do you know what it is?’
She covered my hand in hers. ‘Oh dear, I thought you might have heard.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘It’s the little silver dish – the one we used last night.’
‘The one with the marzipan cherries in it?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. The maids have searched everywhere but these things happen…bits and pieces can get swept up and thrown away. Lady Clarissa wants nothing more said. She won’t search the servants’ rooms and as far as she’s concerned, the episode’s over. The piece has gone and no one’s to blame.’
Blood rushed to my face, a furious pounding in my chest. Had it been Jacob Boswell or my brother? Heaven knows they had had long enough to take their pick. To steal from such dear people – to walk away with a silver dish as if by right? Lady Carew would not search the house because she would never think to blame her devoted servants. She knew the dish was not to be found; she knew it was halfway down the drive, soon to finance vice and debauchery.
‘Lady Clarissa must…’ Shame and disappointment burned my cheeks. ‘Charity…is my brother or Sir Jacob under suspicion? Am I under suspicion?’
Charity’s hand gripped mine. ‘No, of course not, Angelica! Put that straight from your mind.’
‘But Lady Clarissa must have her suspicions…’ My voice trembled, tears filling my eyes.
‘Neither you nor your brother are in any way implicated. You know, Angelica, being blind is not always such a disadvantage – it makes you develop other senses – such as the way you hear voices.’
‘Voices?’
‘I judge people by their voices; well, I don’t judge them so much as get a feel for them by the way they speak. It can be more helpful than you think – no outward appearance to dazzle or intimidate you, just the integrity of their voice. Your voice, in case you’re wondering, is full of exceptional kindness.’
