The Cornish Lady Read online

  ‘Oh, my love…ye know I want to see them.’

  ‘Well, there you are. Anyway, even if Father was here, I’d still go. I’d just climb out of the window.’

  Molly placed her palms on the scrubbed table. Her eyes caught mine and she took a deep breath. ‘I’m not sayin’ I’m not comin’…course I’m comin’…ye don’t think I’d give up a chance like this, do you? It’s just the shock…an’ the worry Lady Clarissa will find out.’

  Dearest Molly, always my willing accomplice. ‘No one will recognize me and no one will ever know. I’ve planned everything – I’ve kept back a charity dress and I’ve stitched a huge veil on that old bonnet. No one will know it’s me – nothing can go wrong.’

  Sudden footsteps caught our attention and we turned to see young Grace hurtling down the stairs, almost falling into the kitchen. ‘Miss Lilly…quick…it’s Mr Lilly. Not old Mr Lilly…but Young Mr Lilly…’

  Molly’s hand flew to her chest and I slammed the script shut, pushing it beneath an empty basket. ‘Edgar? He can’t be…he’s in Oxford.’

  ‘Sir Jacob’s come as well. They’re just gettin’ out…’

  ‘Not Jacob Boswell. Not him as well!’ Molly’s face mirrored mine. Mother and son – two prongs in the same fork.

  Chapter Two

  Iran along the hall, pulling open the front door. Edgar had stepped from the carriage and was looking up at the house, his fine cut-away jacket and embroidered silk waistcoat the height of fashion, but he looked thin, his face deathly pale beneath his unruly black curls.

  ‘Edgar! What are you doing here?’

  I ran down the steps, flinging myself into his arms, horrified to feel his shoulder blades through his jacket. His breath smelled of tobacco, I felt a fine tremor in his hands.

  ‘Father not here?’ He seemed strangely nervous, looking over my shoulder at the empty doorway.

  ‘You’ve just missed him – he left this morning. He’s gone— On business.’ I stopped myself just in time; Father’s plan to build a smelter in South Wales was to be kept secret at all cost.

  ‘Well, never mind, we did our best.’ He kept hold of my hands, turning me round. ‘Let me look at you – goodness, Angelica, you’re every inch the lady. Lady Entworth, if I’m to believe the rumours.’

  Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps that was why he had come home from Oxford. Jacob Boswell certainly looked well. He had his mother’s extravagant taste in clothes, her thick blonde hair and her aristocratic hauteur. He was laughing, smiling down at me, the Boswell blue eyes meant to be working their magic, yet I would not look at him, acknowledging him only with the briefest of nods.

  He shouted to the coachman: ‘Take the carriage round the back…’ He was so assured, looking up at the house as if his mother had already sold it. ‘There’s stabling round the back – plenty of room for the coach.’

  His assurance startled me. I had not seen him for nearly a year but, at twenty, he had become a commanding figure, a lion where my brother was a mouse. I was two years their senior, this was still my house, and by the way he was behaving he had to understand that. The wheels of the carriage were muddy, the door newly splattered, yet the horses looked lively and there was no sign of luggage. Edgar saw my frown.

  He glanced at Jacob. ‘We’ve left our luggage at the inn… it’s by the river. We arrived late last night and thought it best not to disturb you. We’ve been given very fine rooms and we thought we’d stay there…’ His laugh had changed. A year ago it would have been a proper laugh but now it was a high-pitched giggle and my heart froze. His cheeks looked gaunt, his heavy black brows too dark for his face. He saw Molly and ran up the steps. ‘Molly, lovely to see you. How are you?’

  I caught her look of horror. ‘Goodness…Edgar Lilly, ye need fattening up. Has Reverend Johns not been feedin’ ye? Come here, my love, yer father’s not here so we can have a hug.’ She clasped him to her bosom. ‘What a shame ye missed him…he’ll be that sorry. Come, let’s see what I can find ye to eat…’

  Jacob Boswell was about to follow but I held up my hand and his eyes caught mine. ‘Angelica…your anger’s misplaced. It’s not of my doing.’

  His jacket was blue silk, his waistcoat heavily embroidered. His cravat was pinned with a silver brooch, matching silver buttons on the cuffs of his jacket. He looked well fed, staring down at me with a look of insolence, and I tried to keep calm. ‘A year ago you joined my brother in his lodgings and his expenses doubled. Father’s fondness for your mother persuaded him to increase Edgar’s allowance and yet again, his expenses doubled. Six months ago, Edgar writes to tell me of his gambling debts. His debts, Sir Jacob, when I know full well he does not gamble, or rather, he never gambled when he was here. I paid them, at once, without Father knowing, and then I received another letter. Another twenty pounds needed – on top of the already increased monthly allowance.’

  A smile curled his lips. ‘Oxford’s an expensive place…’

  ‘So it seems. And yet, there are no bills for books, just bills for dining out? How much claret does my brother need? No, don’t answer.’ I looked up. The coachman had turned round and was staring at me. I lowered my voice. ‘Now you take rooms in an inn instead of staying here? And who’s paying the hire of this carriage? I suppose I must expect both accounts?’

  A year ago, I might have smiled back into his handsome face, framed by its golden halo, but not now. Now, his influence over my brother seemed almost sinister; a huge, golden Apollo, overshadowing him with his brilliance. If Edgar had come on his own I might have had a chance to get my brother back, but not now.

  The coachman was sitting on his seat, straight-backed, staring ahead, and I called up to him. ‘I’m afraid the grooms have all gone to the country so there’s no one here to help you. There’s plenty of stabling – you’ve all the choice you need. There’s straw to be had but no oats – they’ve taken the oats with them.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll see what I can find.’ His heavily layered coat looked damp, his two hands in their thick leather gloves gripping the harness as the horses shook against their bridles. His face was slender, sunburned, his chin covered in rough stubble. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat his brown hair was cut short, his round-rimmed glasses taking me by surprise. ‘Oats are in heavy demand – I’m not surprised they’ve taken them.’

  He was softly spoken, his tone respectful. He was clearly educated, his high cheek bones and round-rimmed glasses giving him the look of a scholar, and I glanced back. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Lilly.’ Through his glasses, his eyes held mine – fiercely intelligent eyes, fringed with dark lashes – and my heart jolted. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No, Miss Lilly. My name’s Henry Trevelyan.’

  I remembered names and I remembered faces and now I looked more carefully, I could see I was mistaken. ‘Don’t draw water from the leat, Mr Trevelyan – we think it’s tainted. Only use water from the pump at the front.’

  He touched his hat and I turned to see Jacob Boswell towering over Grace. He was smirking, raising his eyebrows, clearly enjoying her discomfort, and my dislike of him spiralled. Grace’s cheeks were crimson and I put my hand on her shoulder, ushering her inside. Behind us, Jacob Boswell’s laughter echoed round the hall.

  ‘Oh, Angelica, we could be such friends…if only you didn’t think so ill of me.’

  We ate at five. Mamma’s silver serving dishes glittered in the candlelight; the birds on her Sèvres china placed exactly how she liked them. Her finest crystal glasses glowed red with Father’s best claret, the centrepiece of fruit at just the right height. Edgar slumped even lower in his chair. ‘I see Father hasn’t changed anything…’

  ‘Why should he?’

  I bit back my annoyance. This was Mamma’s room; Mamma’s beautiful green wallpaper with her matching silk stripes on her mahogany chairs. The gold mirror above the mantelpiece had been her pride and joy; her favourite chair still by the window. On good days, sunsh
ine flooded the leaded windows, lighting the faces in the portraits opposite, but today the heavily laden sky filled the room with gloom. If she had lived, Mamma could have had everything ten times over. She could have had her grand house in the country, any number of carriages. She could have boasted a town house bigger than Mansion House.

  Jacob Boswell refilled his plate but Edgar had no appetite, nibbling half-heartedly on a chicken leg and reaching for his wine. Dark curls lay limp against his face, his gaze listless. He seemed reluctant to talk and when he did, he kept deferring to Jacob. I could not eat, but listened in mounting dread. They had not come straight from Oxford; they had been away some time, staying with a friend.

  ‘Did you not think to tell me you were coming?’

  Jacob Boswell did not even look up. ‘We thought we deserved a spot of fishing and shooting…’ He winked at Edgar. ‘But we’re bored with country pursuits…we’ve come to town for sport of a different kind.’

  I could feel my cheeks redden. That man had to be stopped. They both had to be stopped. ‘You’re meant to be in Oxford, Edgar – having private tuition. Father went to a lot of trouble to find Reverend John. He’s very well considered…many people wanted his expertise. Father’s gone to a lot of expense…’

  Jacob Boswell must have caught the steel in my voice. He put down his napkin, flicking the lace at his sleeve. ‘We’ve been granted a small holiday, Angelica – it’s our summer break. We are allowed out every now and then. Anyway, we’re on our way to Oxford – another week and Reverend John will have Edgar straight back in harness.’

  Edgar’s cheeks looked sallow in the candlelight; he seemed distracted, restless, a strange nervousness making him fidgety. ‘Straight back in harness,’ he said sullenly, nothing like the brother I knew and loved.

  Jacob Boswell pushed his plate away and reached for a folded newspaper, leafing idly through the pages. ‘Lord Carew’s won first prize for his Devonshire bull – that should put him in good humour for your visit.’ The next page held an advertisement for Kitty’s troupe and my heart began thumping. It immediately caught his attention as I knew it would.

  ‘Here’s something of interest…’ he said, sitting forward, clasping the newspaper in both hands. ‘Truro’s very own theatre is playing host to Mrs Kitty Gilmore’s highly acclaimed production of She Stoops to Conquer by Oliver Goldsmith. Mrs Gilmore, a much-loved star of the London stage, has taken this production all over Britain, and we are honoured to welcome her. Well, that can’t be missed, can it?’

  Edgar’s eyes caught mine. ‘Kitty Gilmore?’ His mouth hardened; a slight quiver in his voice. ‘Mother’s friend, Kitty Gilmore? No wonder Father left in such a hurry.’

  Lady Boswell’s eyes were in the room and I knew to be careful. ‘You know we’re forbidden the theatre.’

  Edgar stared at Mamma’s empty chair. ‘And we mustn’t go against Father’s wishes, must we?’ The lines round his mouth tightened. ‘We’re to work…work…work. We’re to be as miserable as sin and take no pleasure…’

  The bitterness in his voice sliced my heart. Jacob Boswell was leaning back in his chair, raising his smug eyebrows.

  ‘It’s against Father’s wishes,’ I repeated. ‘Anyway, I’m travelling tomorrow so I’m going to have an early night.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Angelica. Where’s your spirit?’ Jacob Boswell sneered. ‘I’ll find us a way to get tickets.’

  Edgar slammed his hands on the table. ‘Christ, I need air…’ He stood up, his chair clattering to the ground, his plate crashing into pieces on the flagstones. ‘I can’t breathe in this place…it’s like a bloody tomb. Get the carriage – let’s go where there’s some life.’ He kicked the fallen chair. ‘It’s nothing but a morgue…a bloody morgue.’

  I got up, backing slowly away. Another plate was swept to the floor. Another and another. He seemed consumed by frenzy, his faced screwed tight. He reached the door and I called after him. ‘Edgar – you should be in Oxford.’

  He swung back, his sunken eyes burning mine. ‘Christ, Angelica…what are you – my gaoler or something? Get the carriage, Jake – let’s go where we’re wanted.’

  Through the silence, Grace cleared the table. She was just thirteen and her hands were trembling. My heart was still thumping from the violence of the quarrel but she looked petrified and I tried to reassure her. ‘He’s just not himself…I’m sorry, Grace, he should never have shouted like that.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Wasn’t that. I’d forgive Master Lilly anythin’.’ She turned and my stomach tightened. ‘Miss Lilly…ye know ye always tell us we should speak up? Well, Sir Jacob caught me unawares…he thrust himself against me…really thrust. Said ’twas an accident but he held me… here.’ Her young face went scarlet as she pointed to her chest. ‘’Twas no accident…’twas really horrible…’

  I gripped the table, trying to breathe. He was a bully, and bullies must be faced. Your mother was a whore. I was back in the school dormitory sitting on the iron bed, forcing back my tears. Mamma was a renowned actress, she was not a whore. She was beautiful and intelligent. Never shout back, that made them laugh louder–all of them sneering like Jacob Boswell, disdain dripping from their pedigree noses. Well, they would soon eat their words. When I was Lady Entworth, they would all eat their words.

  Jacob Boswell’s command rang across the cobbles – ‘Coachman – bring the carriage to The Red Lion’ – and I glanced out of the window. The coachman was reading beneath the overhang of the stable, quickly tucking a marker between the pages of his book. A frown creased his forehead; he placed the book in his waistcoat and reached for his coat. ‘You’re due at your sister’s tonight, aren’t you, Grace?’ I said, watching the coachman from behind the green velvet curtain. ‘Go at six, just as we arranged. If there are dishes left over you can wash them in the morning.’

  ‘Thank ye, Miss Lilly…I’ll try an’ get them finished before I go.’

  Molly came to my side, a huge tray held sideways against her hip. ‘Three plates broke and two glasses.’

  The coachman glanced in my direction and I drew quickly back. He was pulling on his gloves in no particular hurry and I bit my lip.

  ‘Edgar didn’t even say goodbye. He’s changed so much.’

  Molly, too, looked distraught. ‘I remember the night he was born – the nights both of ye were born. I used to rock ye in yer cradles – sometimes long into the night. Yer dear mamma was so proud…wantin’ to give ye everythin’.’

  ‘She did give us everything – and she’d be furious at his rudeness.’

  ‘He’s young, Angelica, and young men don’t like bein’ cooped up. I’d say he’s over wrought, poor boy – next week he’ll be back in Oxford, reclinin’ all that Latin.’

  Despite my sadness, I burst out laughing. ‘Declining, Molly. It was the Romans who reclined.’

  ‘Declinin’, reclinin’ – it’s all the same. What that boy needs is fresh air an’ good food…an’ to get away from that leech, Jacob Boswell. He’s bad, that man. Like a rotten apple.’

  Molly wrapped her cloak around her, pulling the lace on my bonnet to well below my chin. She locked the back door, giggling nervously. ‘There, ’tis done…now don’t ye go gettin’ seen, young lady…’ She was wearing her Sunday best, a tinge of rouge on her cheeks.

  It was not the first time I had slipped from a house at night and it would not be the last. At school, I would leave the dormitory and run silently down the vast staircase, squeezing out of the small, top window in the laundry room. Through the branches of my favourite tree, I would watch the watery badgers playing in the moonlight, hoping, praying, that Mamma was somehow looking down on me. I would feel her with me, hear her soft Irish accent, and, through my tears, I would promise to fulfil her dearest wish.

  My charity gown was drab and ill-fitting. ‘No one will recognize me,’ I said with absolute certainty. I glanced up. ‘There’s a patch of blue in the west – this drizzle might clear.’ I opened my umbrella. ‘We’ll
go through the back gate and cut along the leat.’

  ‘The road’s already blocked.’ Molly slipped her arm through mine, smiling up at me. ‘There’s not been a crowd like this since Sarah Siddons came fer the theatre’s grand openin’.’ She glanced into her embroidered bag. ‘Honest, Angelica – am I really to sit in the front row?’

  Chapter Three

  Our land at the back stretched down to the leat. We had an orchard, a large kitchen garden. Geese grazed the grass, hens pecking and clucking amongst the mares in the stable, but with the chickens locked away and the horses at the farm, the yard seemed eerily quiet. ‘Come, I’ve got the key.’

  Mamma had once thought to have a fountain built, a rose garden, even a terrace, but I think she loved the simplicity of the garden. A dovecote stood among a jumble of shrubs, an upturned wheelbarrow, a lone blackbird singing from an overgrown hedge. My hem brushed against some lavender and scent filled the air. A huge brick wall skirted the boundary, the back gate stiff on its hinges. The lock was rusty, the key difficult to turn. ‘We’ll follow the leat and double back so it looks like we’ve come from the quayside.’

  I felt breathless, excitement making me walk too fast. Molly’s hip must have been paining her but her smile matched mine. The water in the leat looked murky; the grey drizzle making the path slippery and I held her elbow, ushering her along a back passage where the slops were thrown. I held my breath. ‘Mind – lift your skirt. Thank goodness we’re wearing stout shoes.’ The path widened and we stepped on to the smart new cobbles of King Street.