The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘Moses, do you have some honey in a sealed jar I can give to Edgar?’ I mimed bees in the air, holding out my hands as if holding a honey pot and he seemed to understand.

  Amelia turned to George. ‘You will take it to Edgar, won’t you, George? Only Mr Lilly left in such a hurry.’

  George Godwin beamed with pleasure. ‘Of course…I’ll take anything you like. As it happens, they’ve clamped down on allowing anything into the castle. Major Basset’s set up a guard at the gatehouse – no one’s to enter or leave…absolutely no prison visitors and nothing for the guards. Even I’m being searched and all correspondence read.’

  ‘That’s a bit like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted, don’t you think?’

  ‘He believes they may bolt again…but you’re right, we’re all still so nervous. The castle is very exposed.’

  I looked up from watching the bees on the lavender. ‘Who unlocked the prisoners and let them out, Mr Godwin? They must have seen who it was.’

  ‘It was the woman Henry Trevelyan arrested and imprisoned. She let them out and led them away, but that’s all I know. Henry Trevelyan is insisting that the prisoners say nothing until Sir Alex comes back and they get proper representation. Nothing’s to be said…but I know a guard was seen crossing the inner field towards the keep. Most of them were running towards the fire, but this one was seen running away from it, towards the prisoners.’

  Amelia blanched. ‘They think it was one of the guards?’

  ‘They don’t know for certain. I hear very little even though I’m in the midst of it. I stay behind my locked door most of the time.’

  We walked down the centre path, stopping for a moment at the marble birdbath brimming full of water. ‘Can you take some digitalis for me, George? Only Dr Bohenna might need some for the man with the excessive heart beats.’ She stooped down, picking a handful of dandelion. ‘And some of this? The diuretic properties alone might help…Oh my goodness…!’ She stepped back as a huge hornet flew at her. ‘Take care.’

  George Godwin was by her side and cried out in pain, clasping his hand quickly to his throat. ‘Ow…oh, my God… the pain!’ He pulled back his hand and I saw a huge, red lump at the crease of his jaw.

  Amelia lifted his chin. ‘That looks very painful – quick, go with Moses…get lemon balm or witch hazel…I know he’s got vinegar in his shed.’

  George fell to his knees, clasping his neck, shouting loudly, ‘No, not vinegar. Get mud…mud for a poultice.’

  ‘Does that work better?’

  ‘Yes…quick…it’s the only thing that works. I react very badly to stings…they seem to spread…I’m sorry…I don’t mean to shout…but the pain is terrible. Quite the worst I’ve ever had.’

  I stood rigid, my heart thumping. Not vinegar. Get mud…mud for a poultice. I had heard those exact words before, shouted with the same urgency, the polite veneer of a polished accent slipping in the grip of pain. Those exact words, shouted from a room of debauchery; an open door with a woman swaying from it, a woman in a gaping bodice, bumping into us, leaning over the staircase with her goblet of red wine. I breathed deeply, turning to hide my shock.

  ‘There’s some mud where Moses was weeding…and there’s water in the birdbath.’

  George Godwin had been in that room with Lottie Lorrelli; George Godwin had been at the Heron Inn. He would have seen Edgar in the throes of addiction, he knew he took opium. He would have known he was the perfect target – a man he could manipulate and frame. The insider was not a guard, but George Godwin. He was in league with the woman, he had helped the prisoners escape. I stood staring down at the disturbed earth, watching Moses dig up some mud and mix it with water to form a stiff paste. George Godwin’s office was the room next door to Henry’s – it was he who had visited her when Henry left for Truro. He knew exactly who had the keys to which part of the castle. He did not drink his wine because he knew it to be drugged.

  He was sitting on a bench now, Amelia and Moses applying the poultice. He was smiling, back to being his sweet, anxious self. He had fooled everyone. He had planned the whole thing. His acting may be perfect, but so would mine have to be. I knew just what to do, my concern so genuine, my eyes soft and caring, offering him my handkerchief to wipe his brow. He was smiling back at me, so very grateful, such an honourable young man who would never venture into brothels or take bribes to help prisoners escape.

  I could not believe how blue the sky looked, how beautiful the herbs, how happy I could feel. I wanted to smile and laugh, jump for sheer joy, but I must remain looking concerned, offer George Godwin my arm to help him back to the house. Henry and Edgar were not implicated, both were innocent.

  ‘Mr Godwin, allow me. Has the poultice helped? Is the pain easing?’

  We were walking across the lawn, both of us by his side. He might rest a while, but he would soon be leaving. I had to warn Henry but what could I do? My mind was racing, time was running short. George Godwin was already shaking off his mishap, assuring Lady Clarissa that the pain was easing.

  She stood in her gardening gown and heavy men’s boots, her hands deep inside thick leather gloves. ‘Jethro will see to it as soon as it gets dark. He’ll smoke them first then set fire to the nest. You must stay the night.’ She smiled. ‘You can help build the treehouse if you like. Jethro’s just gone for the ladder.’

  George Godwin smiled. ‘Another time, Lady Clarissa. I fear I must get back. The pain has passed…though I’m reluctant to leave. It’s such a beautiful day and…’

  I left them talking, rushing quickly to the open door of the drawing room. Lady Clarissa’s desk was in the corner, her writing paper and utensils left neatly in a silver tray and I glanced at them, knowing I could not use them without her consent. Behind me, Lord Carew stood in his red felt hat and corduroy jacket. He held a fishing rod in one hand, a large chunk of bread and jam in the other. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swallowing as he spoke.

  ‘Plenty of paper on my desk in the library, Angelica my dear. Help yourself. I take it you want to write to your brother? Use what you like.’

  I rushed to his desk, yet what could I write? The paper trembled in my hand and I laid it on the leather top, taking his pen, dipping it in the ink. George Godwin would read my letter long before the guards opened it – that was just his excuse to explain the open seal. He would read every word, telling Edgar it had been read by the guards at the gate. I would have to write the bare minimum, yet somehow warn Henry. But what could I write?

  Dearest Edgar,

  Never doubt that I love you and know you are innocent of all charges.

  Take heart that the real perpetrator will be soon discovered. Keep well, dear brother.

  Tell your gaoler, Henry Trevelyan, that justice will prevail.

  Your loving sister, Angelica

  I could hear George Godwin in the hall outside. He was saying farewell to Lord Carew, assuring him he was well enough to travel. His horse was saddled and held by a groom on the gravel outside. I folded the letter in three, folding it twice again. I needed to hurry, but how to warn Henry? He needed to know about George, but also that Lord Entworth was about to arrest him – if he had not done so already.

  George Godwin was standing by his horse, Lord Carew pointing towards the window, no doubt telling him to wait for my letter. Henry would read it, he read all correspondence sent to the prisoners, so I smoothed out the page again, dipping the nib into the silver inkwell to add at the bottom.

  PS You must come as soon as you can. The garden is magical at night; I fear Puck is watching me – the interference of woodland sprites can cause great mischief.

  It was all I could think to do. I folded the letter again, doubling over the sides, tucking them in, pressing it against my heart. Please come, Henry. Please come. The clock on the fireplace struck five. Please, please come.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Trenwyn House

  Wednesday 17th August 1796, 1:00 a.m.

&
nbsp; If he came, it would be by boat; he would row up river with the rising tide. A quick glance in Lady Clarissa’s small leather-bound book had shown me the height of the tide would be two in the morning. Low tide had been at half past ten and his journey could take two hours, maybe more. If he came at all, it would be one o’clock at the earliest. I knew the river so well; I had studied it from the ship and watched it from the shore. He would not use the jetty as that could be seen from the house; he would leave his rowing boat tied to a branch along the shore and wait for me on the shingle below the walled garden.

  I drew my cloak about me, staring out of my window. Moses was in the orchard, tending his beehives. I could see his large bee-keeper’s hat and cloak moving beneath the apple trees. He had seen me in the garden before at night, even seen me talking to Henry, and would not raise the alarm. The moon shone above the castle, the stars full of brilliance, lighting the night sky. The clock behind me struck one: it was time to leave.

  Lord Carew had taken the precaution of having his livestock and stores guarded and his nightwatchmen would be patrolling the stables and grain store round the back of the house. I knew to slip from the terrace and run straight to the shrubbery; if anyone saw me I would tell them I was hoping to see the cereus bloom. It may not be a full moon, but I could plead ignorance and hope they thought me too enthusiastic to remember.

  The window opened as I had carefully practised and I slipped into the cool night air, the scent of lilies flooding the terrace with their heavy perfume. The owls were hooting, a slight rustle in the leaves, the path glinting as if strewn with tiny diamonds. I walked quickly down to the wrought-iron door leading to the walled garden. I would go through the garden to the shingle beach; there, I would wait for Henry – if he came.

  He had to come. My mind was whirling: George Godwin must have done it for the money, but his business was beginning to do well. If I accused him, no one would believe me. I would expose myself to the worst possible gossip and my name would be ruined – Father would be ridiculed; George Godwin would deny everything and everyone would think it a desperate ploy to save my brother – even save myself.

  It would not be long before they traced me to the castle; someone would identify me as the woman on the quayside – the blood on the kitten, the wig and cloak found near the ship. They would question the crew of Guillemot who had seen me without my wig. They would identify me, swear in court they had sailed me back to Truro. If my testimony rested only on hearing George Godwin and not seeing him, I would be laughed out of court.

  A rabbit stood at the gate and I knew not to trip over the wires Daniel Maddox had put in place to catch them. Bells would ring to alert everyone, so I picked up my skirts, slipping silently past the birdbath that stood ghostly white in the pale moonlight. The herbs shone in long silver rows, the scent of lavender rising as my skirt brushed the flowers spilling over the path. A movement caught my eye, the cloaked figure of Moses crossing the lower garden, passing swiftly in front of the entrance to the hothouse. He had a heavy basket in his hand and I wondered if I should follow him. It would be nice to have his company as it could be a long wait. What if Lord Entworth had already arrested him? Henry could protect his prisoners but he would be powerless against an arrest of treason.

  I heard a sudden grunting, a shuffling and a thud, and ran quickly down the path, drawing back behind the twisting boughs of a wisteria shrub. A man was on the ground, Moses towering above him, kicking him viciously. The man was cowering, whimpering, trying to roll away, but Moses was kicking harder, his heavy leather boots slamming into the man with incredible ferocity. Bile rose in my throat. I had to stop him.

  The kicking ceased and Moses looked round, his hands resting on his hips, and I drew deeper into the shadows. The man was too upright, his movements too assured. It was not Moses doing the kicking, but Moses lying grunting and sobbing on the path. The man stood towering over him like some avenging daemon, the light catching his cloak, his huge bee-keeper’s hat with its heavy veil, hiding his face, and I crouched lower as he glanced in my direction. He reached down, hooking his hands under Moses arms, dragging him across the brick path to the door of the little painted shed.

  The green door looked grey in the half-light and I watched the man fling it open and drag Moses inside, my stomach sickening as I heard further, brutal kicking. I was too terrified to move. The man was coming out, stripping off his cloak, throwing it back into the shed on top of Moses’ prostrate body. He looked round, pulling off his hat, and I caught a glimpse of tousled hair and the furious eyes of Daniel Maddox.

  He looked evil, no trace of the gentle man who had filled my heart with such compassion. His mouth was tight, furious, his movements swift, as if he had done this all before. With an angry twist he locked the door of the hut and put the key in his jacket pocket, and I stood trying to breathe. I had never felt so scared and crouched lower, watching him through the twisted branches. My cloak was dark green velvet, my hood pulled low over my hair and I froze as he turned once more in my direction.

  It was as if he knew he was being watched. Moonlight lit the branches on either side of me but I was in shadow, pressed as far against the wall as I could go. The earth was damp, leaf mould crumbling on my trembling hands. A branch caught my cloak; he must have heard something as he stopped at the birdbath, the moon striking his boots, outlining his heavy basket. I thought he would turn back and come towards me but he walked swiftly down the row of herbs to his hothouse.

  I was too terrified to stay, too terrified to leave. I needed to go to Moses but I was too petrified to move. I stood rooted to the spot, knowing Moses would be in pain and I had to go to him, but the door was locked and there was no window.

  Poor, poor Moses. My heart jolted in sudden realization – this was not the first time he had been kicked so cruelly. Daniel Maddox must have done this to him before, perhaps many times. His painful walk was as a result of kicking, not rheumatism. It was suddenly so clear – Moses was terrified of Daniel Maddox. That was why he had become such a recluse. Moses had run away when Luke wanted to examine him because Luke would have seen the bruises inflicted on him by such an evil brute. I tried to stop myself from shaking: poor, dear Moses, alone and undefended, at the mercy of such a bully; protecting his beautiful garden from an evil, vicious man, enduring everything out of love for Amelia. She must be told – everyone must be told.

  Daniel Maddox was in his hothouse; I could see him moving among the benches of plants. If I reached the birdbath without him seeing me, I could make a dash for the gate that led to the river, but even as I contemplated going, I knew it was probably futile. Henry might never come; my note had been too vague, he might not have understood it and I would spend the rest of the night fearing Daniel Maddox might find me. He had sensed someone was there, he had searched the shadows; that long, penetrating look had been more than just caution. He knew someone was watching and he would come back. He would find me hiding and know I had seen him.

  I stared through the wisteria, searching the hothouse. Daniel Maddox was out of sight, bending down, emptying his basket, and I saw my chance. I would keep to the path along the wall where it was the darkest and go back to the shrubbery to wait by the terrace. I would have to leave Moses for the moment. This had obviously happened before but it would never happen again. I would go straight back and tell Amelia. Lady Carew would dismiss Daniel Maddox and summon Luke. Moses would have the best care but I had to leave him now – I could not risk confronting a man like that on my own. I was strong, but he would overpower me too easily.

  I was nearly at the gate, making no sound. Suddenly, I tripped and a bell shattered the silence. My hands grazed the bricks and I tried to sit up but a shadow crossed my path, muddy boots on the path beside me. I looked up. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes piercing mine.

  ‘Not a rabbit, but Miss Lilly, how very surprising.’ He laughed to cover the threat in his voice, but there was no hiding the cruelty in his eyes. ‘How very pleasant to have yo
ur company. Are you alone?’ He looked over my shoulder to the shadows beyond.

  ‘I am…I couldn’t sleep…it’s such a beautiful night after such a warm day…the garden smells divine. I hope you don’t mind, but I came to see if the cereus might bloom.’

  ‘It’s not a full moon.’

  ‘Does it really need to be a full moon? Surely it’s bright enough?’

  He was standing so close, his hand reaching down for my elbow, helping me up, but he did not let go. His grip tightened as he began drawing me to the hothouse. ‘Come and see for yourself. I’m delighted you’ve come. I’m busy getting everything packed and ready – there’s so much to do if I’m to leave everything neat and tidy. Now you’re here, you can see for yourself that the cereus lies dormant. Won’t you join me for a drink?’

  His grip was too firm, his voice unkind. ‘No – I must go back…I shouldn’t have come. I’ve been very silly…what will they think if they find out I’ve been out at night?’

  ‘What indeed?’ His voice had turned vicious, a further tightening of his hand as he drew me into the hothouse. The humid air caught my throat, the overwhelming scent of the flowers making it hard to breathe.

  ‘A farewell drink, Miss Lilly. Will you join me and wish me well?’ He shut the hothouse door, turning the key, placing it in his pocket. ‘Forgive me, a mere precaution. These plant boxes are very valuable – as are the orchids. Turn my back and thieves could steal the lot.’

  He was no longer pretending to be charming; he was watching me, a terrifying glint in his eyes. He knew I had seen him. His plant boxes were protected by planks and nailed firmly down with only one remaining open, the heavy basket on the floor in front of it. ‘Will you have cider… or mead…or will you share a bottle of wine?’ He reached down to the bottom shelf and I thought I would faint. I could hardly breathe, the humid air, the heady perfume stifling me, making me dizzy. The wine bottle looked familiar.