The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  I gripped the book harder. ‘And my brother’s?’

  ‘Is full of exceptional sadness.’

  That left one other person. ‘And Sir Jacob’s?’

  She drew her hand away. ‘Full of self-importance and deceit. Now, be a dear and read those poems before anyone comes.’ She giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘My sister used to read them to me and I was terrified we’d be heard – either that, or we’d set fire to the bedsheets. I didn’t understand them then, but I do now. They’re so romantic – so exactly how it is.’

  My cheeks began to flame, burning fiercer with every poem. They spoke of lovers entwined on crumpled sheets, the dawn peeping through the curtains, the sun rising on a night of passion.

  ‘That’s the bit that’s so real,’ Charity whispered. ‘The terrible pain of knowing you have to part.’

  Torrential rain lashed the windows, a battalion of black clouds darkening the sky. Blown sideways in the ferocious wind, the huge red flag somehow clung to the flagpole, the ringing of the kitchen bell and the smell of gingerbread drawing us all into the kitchen. Everyone was there: Lady Clarissa in a huge white apron, Young William and Young Henry standing on chairs against the scrubbed table. Charles and Freddie were sitting on it, their mouths smeared with raw mixture. Lord Carew stood in delighted expectation.

  ‘This one’s yours, Grandpa.’ William handed him the figure of a huge bull.

  ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Titan,’ he said, tickling Freddie’s knees amidst squeals of laughter.

  William handed Charity a rose with iced petals, Amelia a large paintbrush. The servants had figures with caps and bonnets, the grooms had horses. Jethro had a cricket bat, Horace had a bone. Young Henry smiled, keeping mine for last. ‘We’ve made you Fersefony,’ he said, beaming from ear to ear.

  I took the huge fat pig, my heart swelling. ‘I can’t eat her. I’ll keep her for ever.’

  Last Christmas, the smell from a gingerbread stall in the market had prompted a pang of remorse. I had never properly thanked Mrs Penhaligan for the gifts left on my pillow. She had been so kind to me, encouraging my theatricals, suggesting plays to Miss Mitchell, never missing a single performance. Reverend Penhaligan was a school governor and their visits became my greatest pleasure. The stall next to the gingerbread seller was piled high with silk shawls from India and I had bought one on impulse, sending it to Mrs Penhaligan with a letter telling her everything I was doing. Her reply had brought me such happiness – she adored the shawl, Reverend Penhaligan was well, and they still visited the school whenever they could.

  ‘You’ve got to eat her.’

  ‘No…I can’t. She’s too lovely to eat.’

  Lady Clarissa wiped the flour from her cheek. She turned quickly. ‘Ah, Mr Maddox, you’ve come just in time. The boys have made you a gingerbread pot with a sapling growing in it.’ She held out the plate. ‘Goodness, are you all right? Is there something the matter?’

  He had clearly been running and it was hard to tell if his grimace was pain or pleasure. His cheeks were flushed, his chest heaving. He held out a letter. ‘If I may…I need to speak with Lord Carew.’

  Lord Carew peered from under the table, his two young grandsons looking up beside him. ‘Good news, I hope?’

  Tears stung Daniel Maddox’s eyes; it was as if he did not know whether to laugh or cry. In the end, he did both. ‘Wonderful news…I can hardly believe it – yet to leave here…My joy is tinged with sadness.’

  Lord Carew got to his feet and took the letter in his large hands. ‘Course not. A young man like you should spread his wings…’

  ‘It’s from John Fraser. Look, he’s signed it. He’s offering me assistant gardener in his Charlestown nursery. That’s Charlestown of the Eastern States…’ He reached for his handkerchief, his soiled hands shaking. ‘Look – read this. The plants remain in good health and are worth five guineas a piece…they’re to be shipped as live plants. I’m to organize the shipping. But first, we’re to sail to St Petersburg to collect some Tartarian cherry plants. He wants me to prepare the collecting boxes – he’s sent the design.’

  The second page of the letter showed details of a wooden box with a raised glass lid. Lord Carew studied it carefully. ‘Well, well, yes, very sturdy. There are plenty of good carpenters around here who can help you with this.’

  ‘They need to be deep enough for a decent amount of soil yet airy enough to afford adequate light – like a portable glasshouse. I’m to join him when his ship docks in Falmouth.’

  ‘Splendid. Does he say when that’ll be?’

  Daniel Maddox peered at the letter again and shook his head. ‘No. But he does say once the cherries are established, we’re to collect further plants – from the Allegheny Mountains. I’m sorry – I can’t stop shaking. You must think me so feeble only…it’s long been my ambition to become a collector. And now it’s happening, it’s almost overwhelming.’

  Lady Clarissa poured a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter. ‘Nonsense, Mr Maddox, it’s quite the best news we’ve had. We must celebrate. Here, my dear, steady yourself with this. Of course, your gain is our loss, but we’ve always known we must lose you one day. The Eastern States of the Americas – my congratulations, indeed.’

  Daniel Maddox downed the proffered drink in one large gulp. He stood straighter, his shoulders back. ‘I owe this all to you, Lord Carew. To be singled out like this – it can only be because of your recommendation. Without your patronage—’

  ‘Nothing that you don’t thoroughly deserve.’ Lord Carew smiled at Lady Clarissa. ‘But we expect you back one day, don’t we, my love? And whatever you’re shipping – we expect the pick of the crop! Indeed, I rather like the sound of those cherries. Persephone’s partial to a bowl of cherries.’

  ‘These ones are white.’ He glanced at Amelia. ‘Mr Fraser’s a commissioned collector for the Tsar of Russia.’

  ‘Tsar Catherine? Good grief, man, you’ll be mixing with very exulted company.’

  ‘The cherry trees belong to her…but I’ll send you one, I promise – whatever it takes, I’ll make sure you get your own tree.’

  Amelia clapped her hands. ‘How splendid. Yes, please. How long do you expect to be away?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss Carew. Three years – maybe four. I’ll leave thorough instructions for the gardeners. The saplings must be left in their tubs for at least another two years. I’ll make a detailed list of all my requirements – the care needed every month for the next two years so the gardeners know exactly what to do. Everything’s well established – I wouldn’t leave if my work was in any jeopardy. I love this garden too much to endanger its success.’ He turned awkwardly, almost stumbling from the room.

  Amelia stuffed the last piece of her paintbrush into her mouth. She seemed suddenly carefree, almost girlish, tickling her nephews to make them squeal. ‘I’m still hungry. I know, let’s eat William…or Freddie…or Charles.’

  The boys screamed in terror, screeching round the kitchen, the dog barking happily, joining the chase – the smell of the baking, the smiles on every face; the cook shielding the boys under her voluminous white apron. Lord Carew’s voice boomed across the kitchen. ‘Retreat…retreat. Company regroup.’ He gathered the boys together, diving back under the table. ‘Heads below the parapet – wait for the enemy to disperse.’

  The rain lashed against the glass, the wind rattling the windowpanes. I drew the curtains closed, putting down my candle as I climbed into bed. I hardly heard Lady Clarissa’s tentative knock.

  ‘You’re not asleep, are you?’ she whispered, peeping round the door.

  ‘No – I’ve been watching the storm.’

  Her silk nightcap was fringed with lace, an exquisitely embroidered shawl covering her nightgown. ‘Well, move over, young lady – let me in.’ I pulled back the bedsheets with a rush of pleasure. She smelled of rosewater, my delight increasing as she squeezed next to me. She drew the cover over us. ‘Are you enjoying your visit?’ she asked.
>
  ‘Yes, very much. You’re so kind to have me.’

  She drew the candle nearer and unfolded a letter. ‘Mr Maddox was not the only one to get post today. My very good friends, Robert and Elizabeth Fox, are hosting a reception in Falmouth next week and they have invited Lord Entworth to come…and this, my dear, is his letter, inviting you to be his escort.’ She held up a sheet of high-quality paper, beautifully written, with an embossed gold crest shining at the top. ‘How well do you know Lord Entworth, Angelica?’

  ‘Not very well – I’ve only met him three times and each time was very brief. We haven’t really spoken – not so I can say I know him.’

  ‘That is what I suspected. I have to tell you, that this soirée has been long anticipated and will be eagerly attended.’ The sudden beating of my heart made it hard to answer; so public an appearance, everyone speculating, watching my every move. Lady Clarissa must have felt me stiffen. ‘I’m sure you understand that by singling you out for such an honour, he’s leaving society in no doubt of his intentions. It’s a very clear message.’

  ‘Should I accept? It seems very formal.’

  ‘It is formal – very formal, but we must go. I’d not miss it for the world and nor would Charity and Amelia. We’ll ask Elizabeth to arrange a private introduction prior to the soirée – a small group of no more than eight or ten so you can exchange a few words. I know she’ll be more than agreeable to do that.’

  An eagle with a pointed beak perched on the top of the crest. I could hear the excitement in Mamma’s voice: It’s your destiny, my love…a great lady…the gypsy’s quite adamant. Just think, my grandson will be a lord!

  ‘But, so far, you like what you see? Lord Entworth is someone you would like to marry?’ Her voice softened. ‘Has he, could he, win your affection, my dear?’ She smiled at my confusion, raising her eyebrows. ‘The truth please, Angelica. I’m not pursuing anything if it isn’t what you want.’

  The heat in my face was unbearable; the letter looked so formal, yet what else did I expect? I hardly knew the truth – my brave face put on every morning like a Greek mask. Truth meant recognizing the look in people’s eyes, the constant judgement – too rich for some, too tainted as trade by others. Truth was eyes weighing up how much they could overcharge me, or how generous I would be if they invited me on to their charity board. Truth was pinches, innuendoes, vile lies about my mother.

  ‘He has won my admiration,’ I said slowly. ‘He’s everything I look for in a man. He’s kind and courteous…very attentive, and very—’ I stopped, unable to go on.

  ‘Handsome?’

  ‘Yes – very.’ I looked away. Here I went again, I hardly recognized myself any more, the slightest kindness bringing tears to my eyes. I was the glittering jewel of Truro merchant society, fewer than three men at my side and mothers would push their sons forward. It was never if but who I would marry. ‘Sometimes…well, sometimes I think I shouldn’t marry at all. It’s like walking on a tightrope – have you seen them? They balance with an umbrella or cane and everyone watches, waiting to see if they fall off.’

  She sighed softly. ‘Is that how you feel, Angelica? That you might fall off? Or is it that you worry people want you to fall off?’

  I knew Lady Clarissa would understand. ‘It sounds churlish, doesn’t it? Like I’m a spoilt, ungrateful child, wanting more than’s good for me.’ I had never spoken like this before, not to Amelia, never to Molly, certainly never to Father or Edgar. The thought of Edgar made my stomach tighten. ‘I don’t know where I belong any more. Father doesn’t see it but I catch the envy in people’s eyes. They expect me to marry well, yet they remember my mother came from nothing. It’s like they can’t forget it and they don’t want me to forget it – like I’m reaching too high and they want me to fall.’

  In the glow of the candle she looked younger, the fine lines around her eyes less visible. Shadows flickered across her straight, aristocratic nose. ‘Nothing’s too good for you. You must believe that. But, take it from one who knows – you must shut your ears to malicious gossip.’

  ‘It’s hard to shut your ears when they’re pinching you as they say it.’

  Her arm slipped round my shoulder. ‘That malice was a little while ago now – it’s time you put those thoughts aside. Try not to bear grievances. Rise above them. Holding a grudge will eat away at you like a canker.’

  ‘There was no need for their cruelty. I’d no idea girls could be so vicious…Father sent me to learn their ways, but believe me, if he knew! If he knew how close I came to scratching them back – like a cat with my claws out. I could have called them far worse – my foundry language would have stopped them in their tracks.’

  ‘Foundry language?’ She laughed. ‘Have you taught Amelia foundry language?’

  Her soft laughter made me laugh with her. ‘No…and I never will. It was only because of Amelia I held back. She was like an angel, sent to protect me. Without her, I’d have scratched and kicked and sworn every oath I knew.’

  ‘People follow by example. Don’t you think those girls might have been just as lonely – just as lost? That they were jealous of you? After all, there are only a limited number of titled men out there. Your beauty,’ she lifted my chin, ‘your extreme beauty, coupled with the fact that you’re a very rich woman, poses serious competition. And I mean serious.’

  ‘We weren’t so very rich then – Father’s real wealth came after Mamma died. I never saw him, Lady Clarissa. He was always away – brokering deals, amassing a great fortune. He abandoned Edgar just like he abandoned me…he never came to my plays and never went to see Edgar.’ The ache burned my heart. ‘I used to sneak out of the dormitory at night. There was a tree I used to climb – I’d sit amongst the branches where no one could see me. Sometimes, I cried so hard my chest would feel bruised the next day. I’d just lost my mother, yet still they called her names.’

  Her voice was warm, loving. ‘Let it go, my dear. Don’t hold grudges. You’ve performed Shakespeare – you know how the pursuit of vengeance leads down a lonely path.’ She handed me her handkerchief and I wiped my eyes, avoiding the lumpy rose, the work of a child. ‘The power of grievance, old wounds suppurating, feuds between families in the name of revenge? Those plays tell us everything we need to know and we must learn from them. Did I tell you I once had the very great pleasure of seeing your mother onstage?’

  ‘You did? Oh my goodness – I never knew…’

  ‘In London. It was one of her earlier plays; she was Hermia, the part that made her famous. Everyone was spellbound – it wasn’t just me. I honestly couldn’t take my eyes off her and nor could the critics. We all knew we were witnessing something very special – that she would go on to make her name. You must always be proud of her.’

  I could not speak, the ache burning my heart. Like Daniel Maddox, I would have to leave this extraordinary family and face the world beyond their gates; Moses in his sanctuary, George Godwin, desperate to belong, all of us seeking shelter in the house and garden with its ringing laughter and running feet, its mantle of love enfolding us all.

  ‘Well, my dearest, Lord Entworth knows your background and it hasn’t stopped him coming forward.’ She pinched my cheek. ‘Those girls at school were right to see you as a threat – give them credit for that, at least!’

  I smiled. ‘I think that’s why I like him. It’s as if he understands and he’s offering me a safety net…telling me not to worry – that if I fall, he’ll be there to catch me.’ The gingerbread pig lay propped against my dressing-table mirror. ‘Lady Clarissa, please be honest. Would I pass as gentry?’

  A tear rolled down my cheek. It was not pain I was feeling but relief. I was talking candidly for the very first time, as if I had lanced a boil and expelled the poison. ‘I was mortified by Edgar’s behaviour tonight. Compared to Sir Jacob, he was boorish and vulgar. I can’t tell you how ashamed I felt. Mamma would have been horrified because he wasn’t brought up like that…but since he’s been in Oxford he’s
become very ill-mannered. It was horrible to watch – really, really horrible and it makes me nervous. I’m scared he’s going to show us up and Lord Entworth won’t want him as a brother-in-law.’

  She slid her arm from around me, tapping her fingers together, resting her forefingers against her mouth. The harshness in her voice was unmistakeable. ‘How well do you know Sir Jacob Boswell?’

  ‘He’s more my brother’s friend than mine. He’s at Oxford with him. He’s in the same lodgings. And through him, Lady Boswell has become…’ I fought to say the words, ‘a particular friend of Father’s.’

  ‘How particular?’

  ‘Very particular.’

  She sniffed, shaking her head. ‘I won’t hide my disquiet, Angelica. I’ve known the Boswells all my life. Jacob Boswell’s father was an unprincipled gambler. On his death, he left his estate mortgaged and his family in penury, yet by the way they live no one would guess. A good many businesses were ruined because of them and very few merchants extend the Boswells credit any more. I only tell you this, so you know.’

  Two prongs of the same fork, tearing into my family. Her eyes held anger, the fine lines hardening around her mouth. ‘Those names Charity mentioned – the names of Frederick’s tutors? They were fabricated, my dear. Both of them made up, and yet both of them known very well to Jacob Boswell. You heard him tell her he would pass on Frederick’s good wishes?’

  She pulled back the covers, stepping gracefully to the floor. ‘Charity heard something in his voice. Looks are deceiving. Without truth, there is no beauty. Best to be warned, don’t you think?’

  Centre Stage

  Chapter Sixteen

  4 Dunstanville Terrace, Falmouth