The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘I can’t tell ye. It’s a different boy each time.’

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘A different one. I wait by the chapel door an’ a boy brings the baskets. Different one each time.’

  ‘The chapel in Killigrew Street?’

  She nodded. ‘I have to get there for eight, an’ I’m always on time, though the boy sometimes keeps me waitin’.’

  She spoke differently to the guards: more refined and less aggressive. I must capture the toss of her hair, the slight slope to her shoulders, the way she leans to one side when she walks. I was trying to remember her silhouette against the sun, the way she carried the baskets on each arm. She had stopped and nodded, her ‘Good day’ sounding sweet and sincere. I remembered her smile as she reached into the basket for the bottle. She had bitten her bottom lip. Yes, bitten her lip and not looked up – as if she were hiding her true identity. And she had a soft veil over her bonnet, I would need that too.

  ‘Where do you take the baskets back – to another boy waiting by the chapel? The prisoners put their work into your basket. Who takes these pieces?’

  ‘I believe they get sold an’ the money pays fer more food.’

  ‘They’re worth a lot more than the food they buy. Who sells them? I need to know the name of this unknown benefactor. Who wields you like a puppet, Miss Selwyn?’

  She clasped her hands against her face, her voice heart-wrenching. ‘I don’t know, an’ that’s the honest truth. I collect the baskets from the boy just like I told ye…but I take the baskets back across the river. I go to the Ferry Inn in Flushin’…I sit at the back next to the door and sometimes I can wait fer hours. But it’s dry and warm, an’ no one bothers me. There’s always a drink waitin’ fer me an’ a pie…I just sit tight an’ enjoy my meal an’ I wait.’

  ‘Who collects the baskets?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He comes through the door besides me an’ just takes the baskets.’ She was crying now, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. ‘He’s nice to me. He don’t touch me or ask nothing more of me. He just takes the baskets an’ sees that I’m paid an’ I’m fed. What harm can that do? That don’t make me a criminal.’

  ‘It doesn’t, Miss Selwyn. Many would take the work and be grateful for it. I need a description of this man – his age, what he wears…how he speaks.’

  ‘He don’t ever speak. He slips the shillin’ on the table as he takes the baskets.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s not young, not old. It’s dark that end of the inn an’ I hardly see him – he wears black clothes and covers his mouth with a scarf. But he’s bushy eyebrows, I can tell ye that fer certain, an’ he’s got a scar low on his forehead – above his eye.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. ‘I’m innocent, honest I am…like I said – he leaves the shillin’ on the table and just sweeps away the baskets. He don’t speak or look at me. He’s there one minute, gone as quick.’

  Henry handed her his clean white handkerchief. ‘That’s the only time you see him, Miss Selwyn?’

  She blew her nose, nodding vigorously. ‘Ye don’t know hunger, do ye? Ye don’t know what ye have to do to survive. I do a lot of things I don’t like doin’…but takin’ baskets an’ eatin’ a good meal an’ getting a shillin’ fer my trouble seems an honest way of stayin’ alive. Ye judge too harsh…everyone judges too harsh.’

  Henry shut his notebook and reached for his pocket watch. ‘I never judge and you’re wrong. I do know what hunger feels like.’ He walked to his bag, reaching for the two apples, handing one to Edgar who stood wide-eyed by his grille, the other to Martha Selwyn who was still crying into his handkerchief. ‘I believe you, Martha. For the first time, I believe you’re telling the truth.’

  He lit two more candles, grabbed his coat and bag and walked to the door. He was just the other side of the screen and I knew to slip quickly out behind him. Martha’s voice rang from her cell. ‘Thought ye said I could go – thought ye said ye believed me.’

  ‘One more night,’ he called, unlocking the outer door. He reached for her cloak and bonnet. ‘I’ll be back.’

  He locked the door behind him, pulling me quickly into the same recess where I had stood with Mary. Two guards sat either side of George Godwin’s locked door, two others guarding the heavy outer door. We could hear them laughing, rolling their dice. In the dim glow of the stinking rush light, he handed me the bonnet.

  ‘Here, swap bonnets. This one’s bigger and the veil will cover your face.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Hold still, I’ve a stick of charcoal – let me draw her mole.’ I lifted my face and his hand cupped my chin, his face so close, I could feel his breath against my cheek. ‘It’s just gone seven, we’ve very little time.’

  ‘I can go on my own – there’s no need for you to come. I’ll collect the baskets and come straight back. Everything must remain as usual. I know where the chapel is and I know to wait for a boy. It won’t look right if you follow me – they’ll see you. You know she gives the bottles to the guards?’

  ‘Prisoners aren’t allowed alcohol…everyone knows their gifts to the prisoners are shared by the guards – food for the prisoners, the odd glass of whiskey or wine to smooth the passage in. That way, everyone’s happy. I can’t stop it. No one stops it. It’s part of the arrangement. I don’t like the thought of you going alone.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of collecting the baskets.’

  ‘It’s your safety I’m concerned for. Take this.’ He pulled a silver whistle from his pocket, negotiating my huge bonnet to place the chain round my neck. His hands brushed against my cheek. ‘Use this at the slightest scare. It’s very loud – I’ll probably hear you from here.’ He smiled. ‘Here’s her cloak. Pull the hood over your bonnet and use this muffler – best act like you’ve a sore throat.’

  The guards pulled back the heavy lock and I turned from the lamplight. ‘Will we see ye again tonight, Miss Martha?’

  I nodded, smiling, but caught my breath as George Godwin rushed quickly past me. He raised his hat, half bowing, half nodding, slipping quickly through the gate to the door of his room. I turned with relief as the gate slammed behind me, the lock scraping, and I walked swiftly up the spiral stairs, breathing in the fresh evening air. Martha Selwyn was lying. She was in that room in the inn and she was the woman who had framed Edgar.

  The courtyard of the gatehouse looked even more ramshackle. A new delivery of straw was piled untidily against the storehouse and a couple of soldiers were trying to unravel a dirty tarpaulin. Private Mallory waved me forward, shaking his head as the tarpaulin ripped in two. I walked swiftly through the gate and across the stone bridge and stood staring down at the ships in the harbour. It was so beautiful it took my breath away. The sea was red, blood red, and I stared in awed wonder. It was as if the sky was on fire – huge bands of orange and pink blazing across the evening sky.

  Chapter Thirty

  The church clock struck eight and I looked around. I was in Killigrew Street, standing outside the chapel, arranging my skirts, trying to look like I did this all the time. Shouts were ringing from the taverns, a few carts clattering along the cobbles. After a week of rain the streets smelled fresh, everyone out enjoying the warmth of the evening sun. Children played hopscotch on the flagstones beside me, a group of girls chanting rhymes as they skipped.

  My stomach tightened. Three men were looking at me; one coming towards me.

  I smiled at his greeting. ‘Good evening, Sister.’

  He had bushy eyebrows but no scar. He was young, his clothes sober but not dark, and I looked down, not knowing what to say. At once, I saw a young boy struggling down the road with two baskets and I turned from the man to greet him. The boy was thin, pale, poorly dressed, with sores around his mouth and a runny nose. He put the baskets by my feet and ran quickly away and my fear rose. The man was still by my side.

  He picked up the baskets, handing them to me. ‘Are
you sure you can manage?’ His smile seemed genuine but I could hardly tell. ‘These baskets are very heavy. I’d be happy to carry them for you.’ He smiled again, his face flushing scarlet, and I shook my head.

  ‘That’s very kind of ye but…I’ve someone waitin’ to help me. I’m betrothed, sir…I thank ye for yer kindness but he’s waiting fer me just round the corner.’

  My heart hammered. Had I sounded like her? I leaned slightly to one side, taking the baskets from him. Perhaps he had just plucked up the courage to come and speak, perhaps he was not a thief, or the man behind the baskets, either way, once round the corner, I put the whistle to my lips, walking as fast as I could, my ears straining for the sound of his footsteps. None came, and I began to relax, the last streaks of setting sun lingering on my back as I laboured up the path.

  The baskets were indeed heavy, the bottles protruding from beneath the cloths. I was used to wearing gloves and the rough handles chaffed my palms. No wonder she carried them on her arms. I stopped where I had stopped with Mary, the clear view of the path reassuring me that I was not being followed. The air was still, not a breath of wind; goats were bleating behind their fence, a blackbird singing from the branches of a hawthorn, and I lifted the cloth to see what I was carrying.

  There was hard cheese, soft cheese, a whole side of ham; four pottery jars, sealed with wax. There were carrots, apples, walnuts and small cakes squeezing between the bottles, almost spilling over they were crammed so full. One basket had a notebook, a quill and some ink; in the other, a small prayer book. I replaced the cloths, lifting the baskets back on to my arms. I was halfway there; the sky was darkening, the air growing cooler.

  Private Mallory held out his hands and ushered me forward. ‘My dear Miss Martha, ’tis a heavy load, so it is. We thought you’d not be back again tonight. Bless my soul, what an angel you are. An angel, sent from God above to comfort the sick and lonely.’ He glanced into the basket and I stood in the shadow, biting my lip, hoping the veil on the ugly hat was doing its job. I handed him a bottle and he stroked it appreciatively. ‘From Portugal, I see – like the last one. Well, there’s a treat for an old man. ’Tis a lovely evening, so it is, but mind there’s a chill in the air – you wrap up, lass, lest you catch cold.’ He smiled again. ‘No need for paperwork – I’ll see you get signed in.’

  I had no idea my heart could beat so fast. The sky had darkened to deep mauve, the sea still lit with streaks of fire. At the castle gate Private Evans smiled, anticipating my pleasure, holding Lily aloft, and I put down the baskets, taking her from him. I held her to my lips, kissing her soft head and she mewed in my hands. ‘How’s my lovely Lily?’ I whispered, looking down at my baskets. ‘Will you have something against the chill of the night, Private Evans?’

  He laughed his wheezy laugh, shaking his head, a secret tap directing me to the flask in his pocket. ‘I’ve still a drop or two left – whiskey eases my joints better than wine. Give it to them downstairs – they do all the hard work, I just get to sit and admire the sunset.’ He stared across the sea to the ships just visible in the fading light. His voice turned wistful. ‘And a beautiful sunset it’s been. It’s not home, but it’ll do very well.’

  Once more down the spiralling stone staircase, the stench of confined air growing stronger with every step. It was not fear making my heart race, but excitement, anticipation: the thrill I felt when I slipped from the window to climb the tree; when I watched the badgers playing in the moonlight; when I went to the theatre; when I stood in the moonlit garden, talking to Henry Trevelyan. I would find this man. I would find this man and save my brother.

  The guards straightened when they saw me; each of them with white hair and stiff joints, or amputated legs or fingers. Each invalided out of service and retained on low pay – a Company of Invalids guarding the only fortress capable of defending Falmouth against enemy invasion. My liking for them all had long turned to fondness, but George Godwin was right. They were too frail.

  They unlocked the heavy door, clutching their bounty, and I made my way past George’s locked room. Henry’s door was open and he looked up from his pile of papers, grabbing his jacket from behind his chair, following me along the ill-lit corridor to the old kitchen with its pointed brick arches and central Tudor rose. A line of trestle tables stretched along the middle of the room, long benches down either side. Lamps were burning against the curved stone walls, the soldiers playing cards round a guttering candle. They stopped when they saw me, rising stiffly from their chairs to make me welcome.

  ‘Miss Martha, we thought you weren’t comin’.’ They took my baskets, heaving them on to the trestle table, lifting the cloths with a smile. Almost at once, the remaining two bottles vanished from sight. ‘I’ll get Mr Trevelyan. Oh, ye’re there, sir! John, bring up the prisoners.’

  I thought I might retch from the stench. The air was thick and choking, no breeze blowing through the bars of the high window above. Smoke from the guards’ pipes hung in the air, making it impossible to breathe. Buckets of water stood in a row beside an alcove and I knew that must be the latrine. As bad as the tannery, as bad as anything I had ever smelled, yet I had to act as if it were familiar, as if I had done this twice a week for the last three weeks.

  Two guards began lifting up a central hatch and I could see slatted wooden steps leading down to a dimly lit cellar. Rooms branched to both sides, hammocks hanging from the ceiling. Men were stretching, rolling off their hammocks, their haunted eyes looking up through the hatch – eyes like caged animals – and bile rose in my throat. They began fastening their boots, making their way up the wooden steps, and shivers of disgust ran down my back. My cheeks burned with shame, tears stinging my eyes, and I turned to stop myself from crying. No one should be kept like this. No one. It was immoral and cruel. It was against a man’s dignity – against humanity.

  Henry Trevelyan was beside me, watching me as the men gathered round. Some swilled their faces in the water from the buckets, running their wet hands through their hair. Others shuffled towards the table, scraping back the bench to sit down, their shoulders hunched.

  ‘How could you treat them like this?’ I hissed.

  ‘I don’t like it either, but it’s the best I can do. They can wash and they’ve access to the best medical care. They’ve plenty to eat and I see to it that they have fresh air daily. Their conditions are as good as I can make them.’ He lifted back the cloths of the baskets, placing the contents on the table in front of him. He reached for his pocket knife, cutting round the wax seals. ‘I need to check there’s nothing in these pots – they may try to smuggle in knives, or a compass.’

  The men sat glaring from under bushy brows. They were dark skinned, swarthy, dressed in an assortment of charity clothes. Their hair looked lank, but brushed, tied behind their necks or swept back from their faces. Most of them were bearded, a handful of youths among men mostly in their forties. Burly sailors who longed to be back at sea, the eighteen prisoners who had dug a tunnel out of Kergilliack in the hope of escape.

  Henry finished examining one pot of jam, replacing the cork lid before opening the second. A tall, stooped man with heavy tattoos on his forearms smiled and bowed. ‘Zank you, Mees Martha,’ he said, beginning to distribute the food equally between the eighteen pewter plates the guards had laid out. Henry flicked through the blank pages of the notebook, searching the quill, holding the glass ink jar up to the candle.

  ‘Have there been any fights, or incidences? Have you any complaints or requests? Monsieur Grimmald?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Non. Everything fine.’ He nodded, bowing once again as he left to take his place at the table.

  ‘They’ve already had their supper. They spend an hour playing cards or doing their marquetry and then they go below.’ My heart was crying, yet his voice held the same dislike. ‘It looks awful but this is humane and civilized compared to what our men can expect. I don’t randomly choose to behead someone – nor do I beat them, nor lock them in cramped conditions
without food and water for a week. Prison is punishment enough; constant fear of torture and death is inhumane. We must maintain our humanity at all costs. Never stoop to cruelty.’

  He turned the basket over, checking the base. ‘Sir Alex is doing everything in his power to build clean, efficient prisons to ensure the men have access to fresh air and exercise, but in the meantime, hulks and cellars are needed to take the load off our overcrowded gaols – and cramped cellars like this one.’

  Handing me a basket, his voice dropped. ‘Monsieur Grimmald will make a note of who puts what in your basket and then you usually say a prayer with them and leave. I’ll tell them you’ve a sore throat. Perhaps you should sit by the door.’

  They made short work of the food, licking the jam from their fingers. Monsieur Grimmald washed out the empty pot and put it in his pocket, smiling at his new acquisition; a pottery jar with the outline of a snow goose painted on it – the perfect receptacle for his new quill. A prisoner stepped forward, holding up a delicately crafted straw hat.

  ‘This is very fine indeed,’ Henry said, trying it on. ‘Will you make one for me – only a little bigger?’ He smiled. ‘Un peu plus grand, pour moi, s’il vous plaît, monsieur?’

  With the collected work in the basket, Henry stood beside me. ‘Miss Selwyn has a sore throat…I think she should go …perhaps one of you might read the prayer?’ The looks of concern turned to rumbles of disquiet, the men shaking their heads, obviously wishing me well, and I held my handkerchief to my nose, following Henry through the door. The key turned in the lock behind us and he put his hand on my arm, ushering me along the corridor. ‘Are you all right? They thought you were her – they all did. You did well.’ He stopped to pick up his coat and hat. ‘I’ll just let Captain Fenshaw know I’m going.’

  He knocked on George Godwin’s door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Henry, Captain Fenshaw.’ The lock turned, the door opening a fraction, barred by a heavy chain. Through the narrow gap, I saw George Godwin’s desk piled high with papers. ‘I’m leaving for an hour or two – it’s all quiet.’