by Nicola Pryce
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple catching the lace at his neck. A flush covered his cheeks. ‘Miss Lilly, all I’m asking is that my second marriage is based on love. My feelings for you will never change, but I can turn and leave – I’ll not pester you and I’ll never beg.’
A rush of tenderness filled my heart. This was so different from what I had imagined. He was asking for my love, not demanding it, not expecting it. I felt almost dizzy. His smile was tentative, definite shyness in his eyes. His voice dropped. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight – that one, piercing moment when one soul recognizes another? Or do you think that too romantic?’
I could not answer. A footman had just conveyed a message to Mrs Fox and she clapped her hands, glancing quickly at the painted dial of the long-case clock. ‘Goodness, that went very quickly. Our guests have all arrived – shall we go down? Mr Fox, if you escort Lady Clarissa…Lord Entworth, if you’d be kind enough to take Miss Lilly.’ She put her hand through Charity’s arm, holding out the other to Amelia. ‘Can you hear a fiddle?’
The door to the drawing room was open, the room full, necks trying not to crane as we swept down the stairs. I caught the surprise in their eyes, recognizing three girls at once from school; they looked older, plumper, all of them sweeping their fans across their faces in sudden panic. The fiddler continued playing and the chatter resumed. Lady Clarissa smiled. ‘That’s a very lively jig, how jolly – are we expected to do the hornpipe, Mr Fox?’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Do you dance the hornpipe, Lord Entworth?’
‘Not if I can help it, but I believe Captain Pellew dances it very well – perhaps he’s proposing to teach us.’
Forty people at least were holding glasses, well into their conversations; some were dressed in plain clothes, others in fine silk, but the predominant colour was blue. A dozen officers in his majesty’s navy stood resplendent in their white sashes and fine gold braid. Others must have been packet captains, or merchants, most of them wearing their prosperity more flamboyantly than their hosts.
Robert Fox’s progression through his guests was slow, each person greeted with the same warmth and humour. We were just behind him, Mr Fox turning to induce us. Voices were rising and I hardly caught their names but most seemed to know Father and sent him their regards. At last, I found a chance to escape – Amelia was alone by the window.
‘It’s very crowded…I feel a bit hot. I’m going to join Miss Carew if you don’t mind?’
Lord Entworth’s brow creased. ‘Not at all – shall I get you a drink? There’s lemonade.’
‘No – I’m fine. I’ll join Amelia by the window.’
Two men were blocking my way, one a naval captain in resplendent uniform, the gold glinting on his epaulettes, the other Mr George Godwin, and I managed to squeeze past without disturbing them. ‘An excess of twenty thousand – I only know because I’m prize agent for Lord Falmouth. I believe the navy has taken Virginie on.’
‘Indeed.’ Captain Pellew’s sunburned face looked over George Godwin’s shoulder.
George Godwin’s plump cheeks flushed, he wiped his forehead. ‘Two ships and not one member of your crew injured.’ Dog-like devotion shone in his eyes. ‘My prize agency is here in Falmouth and I can assure you of the highest efficiency. I’ve many names on my books—’ His face fell. Captain Pellew was walking away, people parting to allow him through.
‘Poor George,’ whispered Amelia. ‘I told him to approach newly commissioned lieutenants, not hardened prize-takers like Captain Pellew.’ She drew me to the other side of the window. ‘Don’t let’s be caught again. George has just spent a quarter of an hour discussing his new jacket. It’s very fine, but that can be said in four words. You see the man playing the fiddle?’ I stifled my surprise; the fiddler was a black man. Another man stood next to him, both wearing naval uniforms. ‘He’s from HMS Indefatigable – Captain Pellew’s ship.’
‘He must have been a slave,’ I whispered.
Mrs Penrose joined us, standing elegantly between us, her voice matching my whisper. ‘He was enslaved from the Gulf of Guinea but he’s more recently from Lisbon. Captain Pellew believes his playing raises his men’s morale.’
‘I’m sure it does – he’s very good. Did Captain Pellew free him?’
‘Not exactly. HMS Indefatigable was in Tagus for repairs and after Captain Pellew heard him playing, he had him pressed into service.’
The fiddler was a young man with wiry black hair, his face etched with pain. ‘Is that so terrible? At least he’s free. There are no slaves in our navy.’
‘I should hope not! But it’s taken a lot of contrivance to convince Captain Pellew to bring him here tonight. The poor man’s virtually a prisoner. He takes solitary meals because he’s the only black man among the crew – they won’t eat with him, yet they dance to his music. He’s never let off the ship…tonight’s quite an acceptation.’
I was appalled, immediately saddened. ‘But that’s so horrible – how come he’s here tonight?’
‘Lord Entworth asked especially…and as Captain Pellew is no fool he agreed – he knows who to please.’
‘Lord Entworth asked?’ Unease churned my stomach. It felt so wrong. ‘But it’s really horrible – it’s like they’re exhibiting the poor man.’
Mrs Penrose drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, Miss Lilly. They might as well be parading him in chains. Come, turn away, we mustn’t be seen staring.’ She linked her arms through ours. ‘A lot of people have heard about the fiddler, but what isn’t common knowledge – and which is the most appalling part of this sorry story – is that his name is Mr Joseph Emidy and he’s a virtuoso violinist. He’s one of the finest players in Lisbon – in fact, the leading violinist in the Lisbon opera. Here, sit down. I thought that might shock you.’
She handed me a glass of lemonade. ‘But…a man of such talent – forced to play jigs? It’s unthinkable. Captain Pellew must be told…’
Mrs Penrose smiled. ‘It was after a performance at the Lisbon opera. Captain Pellew watched him playing in the orchestra pit and ordered the poor man’s kidnap. His thugs were waiting for Mr Emidy at the stage door. They dragged him aboard Indefatigable and kept him hidden. Once out at sea, he was shown to the crew.’
‘Like a trophy,’ whispered Amelia.
Nausea gripped me. ‘But that’s terrible. We must do something – that poor man, he must think us barbarians. A man of such talent—’
‘Hush, my dear. Smile. Keep your outrage hidden. Mrs Fox is bringing us company.’
At the sight of the two familiar figures, my heart leapt with pleasure. Lady Polcarrow smiled broadly, stepping forward to greet me. ‘Miss Lilly, what a lovely surprise.’ The feathers in her turban fluttered. ‘We weren’t expecting to see you here – I’m sorry your father isn’t with you.’
Five weeks ago we had celebrated the opening of Sir James’ new lock. I had been their guest of honour, sitting under a decorated bower while the children danced and gave me flowers. ‘Father’s away on business.’ I could say no more. They must not know the smelter in Sir James’ new harbour was to be the last one Father planned to build in Cornwall.
They were a striking couple: Sir James with his dark, stern looks; Lady Polcarrow with her exquisite beauty, her ruby-red gown reflecting her chestnut hair. ‘Do send my regards to your father,’ she said. ‘I did so enjoy your visit.’
Sir James nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. Please do. A very enjoyable day. My attorney’s prepared most of the contract – he’s at the harbour now, ironing out the finer details. Another week and I’ll have it signed.’ He bowed to Mrs Penrose, smiling ruefully. ‘Mrs Penrose, delightful though it is to see you – I’ve been sent on an errand. Lord Entworth is hoping – indeed, I believe everyone in this room is hoping – that I might be able to persuade you to play? Having a member of the Truro Philharmonic amongst us raises such high hopes and it’s fallen on me to request such an honour.’
A number of guests must have heard his request, their soft mu
rmurs growing into excited chatter. Elizabeth Fox smiled back at her guests. ‘I wasn’t going to ask and I certainly wasn’t going to presume – but, well, now Sir James has asked… would you mind, Mrs Penrose? The pianoforte’s been pushed into the corner but it would be no bother to bring it forward. There are plenty of chairs…’
An excited buzz accompanied the scraping of chairs. Mr Fox nodded to the servants – an impromptu concert was about to take place. The piano stool was positioned correctly, Mrs Penrose smoothed her skirts. ‘Goodness, what shall I play?’ Suggestions rained down on her, the ladies now seated in a neat row round the piano, the men standing behind their chairs. Mozart was the clear favourite, though some were calling for Beethoven. ‘You choose, Sir James. What would you like to hear?’
Sir James stood tall, his stern face impassive. He leafed through a pile of music. ‘I’m not sure – this – yes, play this. Do you know “Melodie” by Mr Gluck, Mrs Penrose?’
‘I know it very well.’ Eleanor Penrose took the proffered sheet, pinning it behind the music clips, linking her fingers together before stretching them out. ‘But I’m not sure it’s the best choice – it’s written for a violin. The piano’s merely the accompaniment.’ Shocked silence greeted her words and she turned quickly round.
Sir James was no longer by her side. He had taken Mr Emidy by the arm, leading him forward, encouraging him with smiles and nods. The poor man looked petrified, glancing round to seek out Captain Pellew. He was right to be scared: Captain Pellew’s furious eyes glared back at him but Sir James took no notice, guiding Mr Emidy carefully towards the piano. He bowed respectfully. ‘Mr Emidy, would you do us the very great honour of letting us hear you play?’
Tears pooled in the poor man’s eyes, his lips began quivering. Mrs Penrose played some notes and he nodded gratefully, readjusting the strings as he tuned his violin. Everyone was staring at him, some believing it to be for their entertainment, but others looked uncomfortable, frowning at their hands, disliking the thought of the poor fiddler’s impending ridicule. His nod indicated he was ready, and he placed his violin under his chin, at once lifting his chin higher. His eyes shut tightly and I knew he must be imagining himself back in the opera house.
The first swing of his bow and I thought my heart would break; the plaintive notes soared round us, the pain almost too much to bear. The intense longing seared our hearts; a man held against his will, setting his notes free, willing them to wing their way across seas. No walls, no irons, no chains – the sheer beauty of his music soaring across vast oceans, unlocking shackles, bringing hope to anyone who would listen. Tears rolled from his shut eyes. He had the score by heart – no longer playing in his head, but stretching out his taut bow, melting the hardest of hearts.
A breeze blew through the open window, moonlight flooding the decks of the anchored ships. Silhouetted masts bobbed in the outgoing tide, the clinking of the rigging carrying across the silent water. Amelia drew her shawl tighter. ‘Not one single cloud. Look, the stars are so bright.’
Neither of us wanted to sleep, both of us hugging our knees, flushed with success. Thirty people had signed Sir James Polcarrow’s anti-slavery petition and more had pledged their support. ‘I knew Sir James was a staunch abolitionist – I’ve admired his work for a very long time and I’ve heard him speak but I never knew…’
‘Robert and Elizabeth Fox are members of the Society of Friends – most of their acquaintances are abolitionists.’
I was not thinking of everyone else. I was thinking of Lord Entworth – without his intervention, the concert would never have gone ahead. ‘I admire Elizabeth Fox so much – she’s very forthright in her views. I had a long talk with her on women’s education and the condition of prisoners – she believes the prison system is outdated and inhumane.’
‘I hope it stays nice for your walk tomorrow – she wants to show you round…you better wear stout shoes because she walks very fast. Angelica, are you ever going to stop smiling? Look at you, see – there you go again.’
‘I can’t help it…’ I was smiling; smiling and smiling. Hugging my knees and hugging my heart. ‘If Lord Entworth hadn’t persuaded Captain Pellew to bring Mr Emidy, Sir James’ plan would never have worked.’ It was hard to describe how I felt; perhaps it was pride, or respect, but it made me so happy. ‘I’ve got so much to learn about Lord Entworth.’
Amelia reached up to close the sash window. Her face was in darkness, her voice soft and loving. ‘Yes, you have – but don’t worry, you’ve plenty of time. Mamma’s told him he’s to wait until her birthday to propose. There’s always a big party after the cricket match because it heralds the harvest – not that there’s going to be much to harvest this year.’
A shaft of moonlight caught the gingerbread pig on the dressing table and my smile vanished. ‘I can’t think why I brought Fersefony,’ I whispered.
She laughed, pulling the soft eiderdown round us. ‘Poor Fersefony – don’t throw her away. Keep her as a keepsake.’
I did not return her laugh but stared into the darkness. There must be no keepsake, the moon was keepsake enough; one moonlit walk and one brief conversation did not make you love a man. ‘Does Lord Entworth play cricket?’ I asked.
She giggled. ‘Lord Entworth play cricket? Goodnight, Angelica. We really better get some sleep.’
Chapter Eighteen
Falmouth
Monday 8th August 1796, 11:00 a.m.
We were to meet Elizabeth Fox at the corner of Market Strand; I was to spend the morning with her while Amelia and Charity took up Mrs Penrose’s offer of a bracing hilltop walk in the hope of seeing distant white sails.
She smiled and waved at us as we crossed the road. ‘Well, here’s a change in the weather – today, we need parasols yet yesterday it was umbrellas! How do you like our town, Miss Lilly?’ Her white bonnet glowed in the sun, her rosebud lips parting in a conspiratorial smile. ‘I thought we’d walk down to the quay and visit the warehouse. I can show you my desk.’
Amelia and Charity wore mufflers despite the warm sun. ‘And we’re going to the top of the hill to look out for Frederick’s ship,’ said Amelia. ‘Mother’s busy answering her correspondence and doesn’t mind what time we get back. She says we’re to seize this glorious day and make the most of the sunshine.’
We walked together as far as the High Street before parting company. Falmouth seemed a very pretty town, certainly very busy. It consisted of one long street with a series of narrow alleys leading down to the waterfront on one side, and a wooded hill rising steeply to the fields on the other. It looked strangely prosperous, the new houses every bit as grand as Truro. The shops looked well-stocked and the market place was teeming: pie sellers shouting, chickens in crates, squawking geese. I had expected the streets to be full of potholes but the cobbles were sound, the sewers flowing freely. But for the sudden envy gnawing my stomach, everything would have been perfect. ‘You have a desk, Mrs Fox?’
She laughed gaily, linking her arm through mine. ‘Yes, in our office – but please, do me the honour of calling me Elizabeth. And may I call you Angelica?’ She did not wait for my reply. ‘I thought you might like to see where we run our business but we can walk through the elm park if you prefer. Wood Lane leads up to a flower meadow and there’s a rope walk, or we could go to the windmill – or visit the pyramid, or walk to Swan Pool…’
‘No, I’d love to see your office. Is your warehouse on the new quay?’
‘We’ve several warehouses. One’s upriver in Penryn next to our timber mill, one’s on New Quay where we keep the goods for the insurance claims, and we’ve several more along the river that we rent out – some for grain, some for rice, occasionally it’s salt, but usually it’s stocked with barrels of pilchards. The trade in pilchards is thriving – but to the Indies not the Mediterranean – hence the need for so much salt.’
The tall warehouses crowded above us, numerous fish cellars and boat builders vying for space along the waterfront. We crossed C
ustom House Quay and the Quayside Inn, skirting the fish crates and lobster pots, the fishing nets drying in the sun. Men were rolling barrels along the cobbles, dogs barking, seagulls screeching as they dived to catch the discarded guts. It was noisy, vibrant, the sun’s reflection making me blink. ‘We’re just over there – past Bank House. Are you all right? I’m not walking too fast?’
Our stout shoes echoed along the quay, our skirts clutched in both hands. She was six years my senior and had two small sons, yet she strode along the wharf as sturdily as any man. Nods and raised caps greeted her at every turn, each smile reciprocated, each nod returned with the same quiet dignity. Fishing ships crowded the quay, cranes lifting huge sacks from the hold of a lugger. ‘This is the inner harbour – it’s mainly for the fishing boats. The Packet Service moors against the quay of the Greenbank Hotel – see that ship over there?’ She smiled, pointing to a brigantine bobbing at anchor in the sunshine. ‘She’s ready to leave – the moment the mail arrives the postmaster rows out the sacks and the captain weighs anchor. No time’s wasted.’
A row of very fine double-fronted houses fringed the road. ‘This is Bank Street – and that’s Bank House.’ She stopped, looking up at a large red-brick building. ‘And this is our warehouse. I hope you don’t mind stairs – the office is on the second floor. The ground floor’s a warehouse, the first floor we let out to a delivery company, and the top floor’s used by sailmakers. They run a repair business – we supply their canvas.’
That first flicker of envy was burning like fire.
Why keep me from the foundry? I knew everything about Father’s business – the price of refined tin, block tin, the escalating cost of coal. I knew the wages he paid, the overheads, the wastage. I knew the names of the ships that brought his coal, the ones that took his ore. I knew the harbour dues, the escalating costs of late shipment, the charge of keeping ore on the quayside. Yet his office was forbidden me, my place to remain decoratively at home, or accompany him to fine dinners; every attempt to become involved denied by a frown or a curt shake of his head.
