The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  I stopped, but not through exertion. Smoke from the smelter did not cling to my clothes because Father forbade it, but why? Why keep his children from what had made them? Elizabeth Fox saw me rest my hand on the banister.

  ‘Are you all right, Angelica? Only you look a bit pale – these stairs are a bit steep, here, come in and sit down.’ She opened the glazed door and a clerk rushed forward to hold it for us. Robert Fox looked up from his desk, pushing back his chair as we entered. He hurried across the room with obvious concern. ‘Miss Lilly, are you unwell?’

  I drew a deep breath. ‘No…I’m very well, thank you. Please, don’t be concerned.’

  The room was orderly, the desks neat and uncluttered. Leather-bound ledgers lay stacked on the shelves and I fought the jealousy ripping through me. Commerce fascinated me, and here was Elizabeth Fox with her very own desk. It was respect I wanted to see in people’s eyes. Not envy. Not dislike. But respect. Respect earned through my own merit.

  ‘My goodness – you can see everything from here.’

  Huge windows gave sweeping views of the town and surrounds: the bustling quays, the vast expanse of Carrick Roads, the sparkling waters of the seaport of Flushing. To the north, rocks spilled into the sea beneath the jagged promontory, the crenellated tower of Pendennis Castle dominating the skyline. The clerks resumed their writing and Elizabeth opened a ledger.

  ‘Angelica, you said you wanted to sign the petition?’ She handed me a pen and I sat in the proffered chair signing it in a clear hand. ‘Another four pages and the ledger will be full – Sir James is to take it with him to London. He’ll put it directly into the committee’s hands. Slavery will end – it’s just a matter of perseverance.’

  Her clipped smile stopped me from smiling back. She was clearly uncomfortable and I glanced back through the entries; there must have been a hundred signatures, the last thirty in the same coloured ink. I searched the names. ‘I don’t see Lord Entworth’s name. Has he signed it previously?’

  Elizabeth was not by my side but by the door, opening it for an elderly woman who was struggling under the weight of two heavily laden baskets. She was dressed identically to Elizabeth in a dark grey dress and a white shawl around her shoulders, the same stiff white bonnet over her tightly drawn back hair. ‘Susan, let me take these. You shouldn’t have come all the way up with them.’ The baskets looked like Mamma’s and my heart swelled. Elizabeth took them, smiling back at me. ‘I divide my day between playing with my sons, helping in the office and doing charity work – these are for the women in the town gaol.’

  Robert Fox spread his hands wide. ‘This is our office. We’ve several aspects to our business but from here we run our ship brokering company. I’m Consul for the States of America and as such I broker all trade with the Americas. Most ships entering Falmouth register with us one way or another – very few ships arrive without some sort of damage.’ He pointed to a brig entering the harbour. ‘Either storm damage or enemy fire.’ He went to the telescope. ‘That ship, for example, is from Boston and I suspect there’s damage of some sort.’

  Elizabeth looked round. ‘Fortitude? She’s made very good time.’

  Her husband nodded. ‘I’m afraid I must leave you, Miss Lilly. It’s unfortunate timing, but that’s the grain we’ve been expecting – and grain can’t wait.’

  Elizabeth beckoned me to the telescope and the ship came clearly into focus: a three-masted brig with a British flag fluttering at her stern. ‘From Boston?’

  ‘All the way from Boston. My husband needs to assess the cargo before it’s unloaded. Wheat fouls very easily, even in the strongest of sacks. A damp ship or long delays can prove detrimental and the longer corn or wheat stays on board, the more likely it is to ruin.’ She took her turn at the telescope. ‘And we pay the loss, but…that ship looks sound…there’s no outward sign of damage.’

  Robert Fox grabbed his hat and cane. ‘We impound all spoilt cargo in our warehouse and sift through it for salvage – we can usually sell a small proportion of the stock. What we can’t have is the ship’s owner claiming the grain’s ruined and selling it on after we’ve paid the insurance! You’d be surprised what they try – though that’s never the case with the Tregellan Line but other shippers aren’t so honourable.’ His hat in place, he bent to kiss his wife. ‘We’ll run through those timber accounts tomorrow.’

  A movement caught his attention and he rushed to the window. ‘Goodness, what’s going on?’ A crowd in ragged clothes was surging down Dunstanville Terrace. They were running, gathering momentum, soon to reach the High Street; no shouts, no sticks, just a mass of people heading purposefully towards the docks. ‘Oh no – not again. We’ll need to send someone out to Fortitude to tell the master not to dock. He’ll have to anchor in the Sound again. They’ve recognized the flag – they know it’s grain.’

  Elizabeth pressed against the window to get a better view. ‘There’s more of them this time. We must hold them back – it can’t be like last time.’

  ‘I’ll try to reason with them…Elizabeth, go home…now. Please, you mustn’t get hurt. If this turns nasty you could get knocked over like last time. Go home, please – get everyone together and lock the doors. Lock the outer gate.’ The clerks joined us at the window. ‘Please take Mrs Fox home…escort Miss Lilly back, if you would, and I’ll go down and reason with them. We must prevent another riot.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘They’ve come because they’re starving, Robert – they just want to feed their families. They know a tenth of that grain is set aside for charity – they just want their fair share.’

  ‘I know, but hunger leads to violence. Last time, they smashed the windows and rammed the doors. I can’t risk you being here.’

  ‘That’s because they thought the warehouse was full and we were keeping it from them.’

  Robert Fox ushered us towards the door. ‘This time I’ll make sure the doors are wide open so they can see it’s empty. I promise, I’ll do everything I can.’ He reached for his keys, locking the door behind us. ‘There’s so much corruption they believe us part of it. Miss Lilly, your safety’s paramount. Go with Benjamin – Lady Clarissa must know you’re safe. Cut up Quay Hill – avoid Market Street. You better hurry.’

  We rushed down the stairs, my heart pounding. I had seen riots in Truro – ugly brutal riots, with tinners carrying picks and shovels. A skirmish had taken place below my window: one of the tinners knocked to the ground, his skull smashed and bleeding.

  Once past Bank House, Elizabeth stopped, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath.

  ‘We believe these riots are orchestrated. We think men dressed as vagrants push their way to the front of the crowd. It’s them that cause the panic – they’re the ones who use violence – they throw the first stones.’

  A group of dock workers were hauling an empty cart next to the warehouse and we watched Robert Fox stand on the cart to shout instructions. Men started rolling barrels across the quay entrance, a makeshift barrier beginning to take shape. The open doors of the warehouse showed the empty interior and the clerk called Benjamin pointed me forward. He was in his late fifties, soberly dressed in a dark jacket and breeches, his long beard and soft strands of hair matching his immaculate white necktie. ‘Allow me, Miss Lilly…I’ll get you home. Follow me. No need to be alarmed.’

  A steep alley rose sharply from the main street and I followed quickly behind, cutting up another small lane before he slowed our pace. Breathing heavily, he shook his head. ‘Mr Fox doesn’t deserve this. He’s scrupulous in his dealings. Once the grain’s in the warehouse he’ll divide it fairly – there’s plenty for everyone. Some of the grain’s destined for the navy but most is to be kept in Cornwall. If only they’d wait. Just one day – two at the most.’

  The shouts on the quayside were getting louder. They sounded angry, menacing. Drawn to their doors by the sound of running feet, women stood staring wide-eyed in fear. Men were rushing past, shouting over their shoulders. ‘Va
grants – another bloody riot. Get the Fencibles – the bastards will burn the docks.’

  The stately sweep of Dunstanville Terrace rose gently before us and we started walking more slowly. A middle-aged woman walked a few steps ahead of us, her hat held in place with one hand, a basket clasped in the other. She was smartly dressed and obviously in a hurry but she stopped suddenly and we almost bumped into her. Benjamin doffed his hat. ‘Oh, ’tis you, Mrs Bohenna – I thought ’twas you we were following.’

  ‘Mrs Bohenna – how wonderful. It’s me…Angelica Lilly.’

  Close up, I could see the last seven years had been kind to her: new lines softened her face, her blonde hair now a beautiful white. She had the same half-moon eyes, the dimples when she smiled. She was elegantly dressed in a dark blue skirt and matching jacket, her straw bonnet tied with a silk bow beneath her chin.

  ‘Well, bless my soul. Will you look at you? Of course, you’re Angelica – and very beautiful you are too.’ She took hold of my hand, pressing my fingers to her lips. ‘And very lovely to see you.’

  I felt suddenly shy, blinking in the bright sun. I could hardly hold back my tears. ‘Did you get my note? I didn’t know where to send it – I just wrote Dr Bohenna, Falmouth. You look really well…it’s so lovely to see you.’

  But something seemed wrong, a look in her eye, her voice rather strained. ‘And you, my dear. You look the picture of health. I was thrilled to get your note – and quite by chance, I’m on my way to Lady Clarissa with a letter of my own.’ She smiled at Benjamin. ‘But, seeing as how we’ve had the good fortune to bump into each other, perhaps we can continue together? I’d call that a fortunate coincidence, wouldn’t you?’ A group of men rushed past. ‘Goodness me! Do you know what’s going on? I’ve been nearly knocked flying several times.’

  Benjamin frowned, shaking his head. ‘There’s likely to be another riot, Mrs Bohenna. More grain’s arrived from Boston and it may turn ugly. I suggest you stay indoors.’ He looked up at the rise of the hill. ‘It may prove a false alarm, but best to stay safe. How’s the good Dr Bohenna?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Troon. And your good self?’

  ‘Doing nicely, thank you – now that Dr Bohenna’s medicine’s working so well.’

  I had forgotten her beautiful dimples, her soft Irish accent. The way she remembered names, concentrating on people’s concerns, making them think they were the most important person in the world. ‘Well now, there’s no need for you to brave that hill, Mr Troon, though we’d welcome your company – we can carry on from here. I’ll see Miss Lilly safely back.’

  We stood smiling at his retreating figure, waving as he turned from sight. At once, her smile vanished and her voice became urgent. ‘Angelica…is Lady Clarissa expecting you soon?’

  ‘No – I wasn’t given a specific time. I was invited for the whole morning and told to take my time…the others have gone to the top of the hill with Mrs Penrose – Lady Clarissa had a few visits to do. She may not even be home.’

  ‘That’s perfect and very fortunate. Come, my dear…’ She slipped her arm through mine, drawing me quickly down the hill and along the High Street. ‘I’ll explain everything when we’re home. I live just here.’ A brass plaque shone on the door, the proud words Dr Luke Bohenna, Physician glinting in the sun. ‘Come, in here – where no one can see or hear us.’ She ushered me along the hall into a beautiful drawing room. ‘Angelica, sit down, my dear. I was on my way to Lady Clarissa to deliver you this.’

  I took the letter she held out, the urgency in her voice making my heart race. It had been hastily written on poor quality paper.

  Dear Miss Lilly,

  Your brother is accused of highway robbery and is held prisoner in Pendennis Castle.

  Please come at your earliest convenience.

  Henry Trevelyan

  The room began to spin, I wanted to vomit. Mrs Bohenna knelt by my feet, flapping her fan.

  ‘Breathe deep, my dear, have some air. I know what it says because I have my own letter. Luke’s with him now. It must be a mistake…I’m sure it can be easily rectified.’

  ‘Highway robbery? That’s ridiculous…Edgar has no need to—’ The words caught in my throat.

  ‘I know – the idea’s preposterous. It must be some idea of a prank, only it’s not funny at all. But this disturbance on the dock is a stroke of luck – for us, anyway. If you’re not expected home, we’ll go there now.’

  ‘Henry Trevelyan wrote to you as well?’ The sight and sound of his name had made my heart burn, the thought of him with Edgar strangely reassuring.

  ‘No, my letter’s from Luke – your letter was enclosed. Edgar’s been held under the name of Tom Ellis – and it must stay that way. No one must know.’ She reached for my hands, they were soft like Mamma’s, her eyes every bit as loving, her voice as tender. ‘Luke recognized him at once. He attends the prisoners at the castle and saw Edgar being brought in…Perhaps you should cover that beautiful dress of yours – if we’re to keep Edgar’s identity a secret, you mustn’t be recognized. Perhaps, wear my cloak and one of my bonnets?’

  The shock was passing, terrible fear making me shiver. ‘Thank goodness Henry Trevelyan’s with him. He’ll know how to help us.’

  ‘We mustn’t delay. It’s a good mile to the castle and mainly uphill, but you’re wearing strong shoes so that’s a start.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sun was fierce against my cloak, the sky intensely blue, almost cloudless. Most of the path had dried but some rainwater still pooled in the deeper ruts. We had stared up at the imposing tower of Pendennis Castle for most of our walk but now it had disappeared from sight, the well-worn path growing steeper by the minute.

  We stopped to catch our breath, looking down to the quayside. Shouts had followed us as we climbed the hill and were growing louder. A ring of men in red uniforms were closing round the protestors, each entrance to the dock blocked by mounted soldiers, and my heart sickened; it looked like the rioters were receiving a heavy beating. Fortitude lay at anchor on the shimmering sea, a swarm of red-coated soldiers guarding her decks.

  ‘They’ve called the Dragoons. Oh dear, not again – surely there’s no need for that. Last time Mr Fox said the protesters had agreed to wait, yet in charged the Dragoons and everything turned violent. It’s a terrible business. Luke saw to a man trampled by one of the horses. The man’s leg won’t heal and he’ll never work again. Luke says the riots are instigated. Why would you instigate a riot?’

  ‘Profit – or expedience, there’s always a scramble – procurers for the navy want all the grain shipped to Plymouth and local merchants want it shipped to Truro. Give a town a reputation for rioting and the ships will divert elsewhere.’

  She seemed surprised. ‘You’re very knowledgeable, Angelica. I suppose your father discusses everything with you. You must be such a comfort to each other.’

  The town had been sheltered from the wind but on the cliffs a fresh breeze blew against our cheeks, the scent of gorse carrying with the salt. The lace on Mrs Bohenna’s bonnet fluttered and she tucked her straying hair in place. I turned, trying to hide the sudden emptiness her words had brought. The gulf between Father and I would never allow for intimacy. Neither was a comfort for the other.

  ‘Shall we go on?’ she said, lifting the hem of her skirt with both hands. ‘There’s another steep rise then it flattens and we’ll see the gatehouse. There’s been dysentery at the castle, some of the men have been very ill.’ She paused and my stomach tightened. I knew what she was going to ask. I had been waiting for this.

  ‘Who is Henry Trevelyan, Angelica?’

  I had thought never to see him again, yet the thought of seeing him now brought a rush of pleasure. ‘He was Edgar’s coachman. We met briefly at Trenwyn House – he taught everyone how to play cricket.’

  She was certainly surprised. ‘A coachman? Well, I didn’t expect you to say that!’

  ‘He’s not a real coachman…he was at the time,
but it was only temporary. He’s very upright…and dependable.’

  She smiled. ‘Men who play cricket usually are. Well, let’s just hope he can vouch for Edgar and get him freed.’

  The path broadened to solid cobbles; ahead of us, the gatehouse stood flanked on both sides by large grassy banks – the outer bastions of Henry VIII’s castle. The deep moat held little water, the gatehouse rising austere and formidable. A covered passageway led from under a stone arch with an intricately moulded pediment. ‘You can understand how the royalists managed to withstand a siege for so long,’ I said, fighting my fear.

  We crossed the bridge to the gatehouse entrance. Two soldiers were leaning against the stone walls with rifles slung across their shoulders, and stood to attention, barring our way. Mrs Bohenna smiled, the ribbons on her bonnet fluttering. ‘We’re here to meet Mr Henry Trevelyan…or Dr Bohenna. It’s about the new prisoner.’

  ‘Well, there’s joy for an old man. Look at you – with your bonny ribbons and lace and your pretty Irish accent.’ The soldier smiled broadly, wiping his hand across his grey beard. ‘’Tis a long time since I’ve seen the Old Country… but there’s nothin’ lovelier than an Irish maid. Nothing at all. Baskets for the prisoners, is it? You just leave them with me and I’ll see they come to no harm.’

  Their muskets resting on the stones beside them, Mrs Bohenna smiled back at the two elderly men. ‘We’ve not brought baskets – we’re here to visit a prisoner. We need help to find Dr Bohenna or a man called Henry Trevelyan. I believe both are still in the castle. It’s them we’ve come to find…’