A Cornish Betrothal Page 2

  Luke smiled at me, getting up from his knees. ‘No, nothing’s lost.’ Our eyes locked and I wanted to throw myself in his arms.

  William and Henry embraced me in turn. ‘Happy Birthday, Aunt Amelia . . . we can’t wait to give you our present. Are you coming? Everyone’s waiting for you in the drawing room.’ They slipped their arms around my waist, both growing so fast they almost reached my elbows. ‘There’s a simply enormous present from Captain de la Croix in the hall. What d’you think it could be?’

  Mother sat on the chaise longue, her bandaged ankle resting on a cushion. Jewels glinted in her green turban, a host of dark eyes bobbing in the feathers above her. Her oriental green gown was threaded with gold, her embroidered shawl sparkling with exotic animals. Papa had somehow been persuaded to swap his favourite corduroy waistcoat for embroidered silk, his felt hat begrudgingly replaced by his grey wig. His smile grew mischievous as he handed Mary Lilly a glass of punch.

  ‘I hope this isn’t as strong as your Christmas punch, Lord Carew?’ Mary Lilly smiled up at him, her soft Irish lilt full of reproach. She had the same blue eyes as Luke, the same tender smile, and the soft lines on her face showed the same gentle compassion. Her white hair was tied back in a loose bun, her velvet hat matching her blue, silk gown. Dearest Mary, with her plain speaking and her inordinate good judgement, had become Mother’s closest friend: they sat on several charity commissions together and were a formidable force for women’s education. I loved everything about her.

  ‘Mr Lilly sends his apologies. He’d like to be here, but . . . well, you know how his work takes him away.’

  I smiled back, unable to answer. I was being dragged across the room by William and Henry. My sister-in-law held out her arm, embracing me warmly. ‘Have we surprised you?’ She held the youngest of my nephews in her other arm and he squealed loudly as we embraced.

  ‘You have, Cordelia – a complete surprise. It’s so lovely to see you. How’s my little Emmy?’ I covered the beaming child with kisses. ‘Are you staying in Truro? I can’t believe you’re here.’

  Cordelia pulled Emmy back to save my gown from soggy gingerbread. ‘The boys wanted to give you their present, and we’ve such wonderful news. My brother Emerson’s coming home . . . it’s unexpected and really very wonderful.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘He’s expected any day now. I’ve brought the children to stay with Mama so we can be here when he arrives.’

  My three nephews were smiling, Henry twisting his hands against his chest. ‘We haven’t met Uncle Emerson yet. He’s been away for so long.’

  ‘Indeed he has, Henry.’

  So much love, so much happiness. I glanced at Luke and my heart burned. Behind me, I heard the footman cough politely. ‘Mrs Elizabeth Fox.’

  ‘Elizabeth!’ I rushed to greet my dearest friend. ‘I can’t believe you’re here as well. What a wonderful birthday this is turning out to be.’

  Elizabeth stood smiling from under her soft white bonnet. A member of the Society of Friends, she often visited her house in Truro, though their family home and shipping business were in Falmouth. Her cheeks dimpled, her rosebud lips pursing in mock horror. ‘As if I wouldn’t come on your birthday! Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.’ Her soft grey gown rustled as I led her to the fire, her simple white collar accentuating her flushed cheeks. She rubbed her hands together, gleefully accepting a large glass of lemonade. ‘That wind’s from the north – I think it’s cold enough to bring snow.’

  Chapter Two

  I untied the ribbon on the boys’ present. ‘It’s so we know whether we can come in or not.’ William pointed to the piece of wood. ‘We found it on the shore and scrubbed it really hard. Then we polished it.’ He held it up. ‘Henry painted this side . . . Aunt Amelia is busy . . .’ He turned the sign over. ‘And I did this side because there’s an extra word . . . Aunt Amelia is not busy. It’s for your painting studio.’

  I kissed them both. ‘Thank you. It’s beautiful and very useful. Your lettering’s very neat. Thank you so much, I shall use it from now on.’

  The boys ran to the table. ‘Now shall you open this big present from Captain de la Croix?’

  ‘I wonder what it can be.’

  Two years ago Captain Pierre de la Croix had given Frederick his parole after HMS Circe captured his ship. He had stayed with us in Trenwyn House while Frederick sorted out his parole papers and we had attempted to teach him cricket – to no avail. He was now in Bodmin with several hundred other French officers and we kept in touch. He was charming, his perfect manners endearing him to everyone. Papa reached for his scissors and I read the attached note aloud.

  Dear Miss Carew,

  A small gift that cannot in any way repay your kindness or your family’s generosity to me. It is not yet complete, but I wanted you to have it for your birthday. Do not set sail quite yet – I have eight more pairs of animals to finish.

  My regards to all your family.

  I remain, your humble servant, Pierre de la Croix

  I unfolded the brown paper. ‘An ark!’ I was lost for words. ‘He’s made me an ark.’

  Every plank on the deck was individually crafted, each a slightly different shade, and we gathered round the intricate model, marvelling at the inlaid wood. The hull was round-bellied, sweeping in a delicate curve, with swirls of mother-of-pearl glistening on the bow. ‘Look – it’s like waves frothing against the side.’

  Each exquisite detail drew cries of disbelief. Portholes gave glimpses of animals in individual stables, windows in the cabins showed figurines on chairs. I opened the side door and pulled down the gangplank. ‘Look, an elephant . . . a tiger.’ Horses followed, then gazelles and sheep and cows, everything carved in the finest detail. ‘He must have whittled these . . . and engraved these from bone.’

  Papa held up a gleaming white horse. ‘And polished them. It must have taken him a very long time. Still, I suppose he has the time. There’s a growing market for these French fancies – they command a good price. Prisoners’ work is being commissioned by many in London. But this is quite the most splendid of everything I’ve seen.’

  Elizabeth shook her head in wonder. ‘How is he? Does his note say if he’s well?’

  ‘No, but we’ve only just seen him. Mother and I took him a hamper for Christmas. He has very comfortable lodgings in Bodmin – the proprietor, Mrs Hambley, spoils him quite terribly.’

  Elizabeth must be in Truro for shipping business, not just for my birthday. She held up a giraffe. ‘I understand the prisoners sell their trinkets in the market – I gather some of them teach fencing and dancing. The people of Bodmin must be getting quite used to having French officers on their streets.’

  Papa shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I can’t see it as a problem – so long as there’s enough food for everyone. Bodmin’s in a rich vale – it’s not a poor town, and I think that makes all the difference. Here, let me.’ He placed the ark on the floor for the boys to examine.

  ‘Well, my present’s going to seem very dull in comparison to Captain de la Croix’s.’ Elizabeth smiled, handing me a parcel. I slipped off the ribbons and held up a pair of soft leather gloves. ‘For your herb garden,’ she whispered as I reached to kiss her. ‘They’re to replace your old ones. Try not to get holes in these ones quite so soon.’

  Our glasses duly refreshed, and the fire newly stoked, Mary Lilly smiled. ‘My present’s from London. I do hope they’re what you’re looking for, only I know you need finer tipped brushes for your herb paintings and such.’

  I unrolled five finely pointed paintbrushes. ‘Oh, Mary, they’re perfect. They’ll make all the difference. Thank you so much . . . where did you find them?’

  Her eyes crinkled along their loving lines. ‘I had them made for you, my dear. I said to make them as fine as an eyelash – the proof will be in the painting, but I’m thrilled you like them.’

  Liked them? I loved them. They were absolutely perfect. Painting was my passion, especially my herbs. Sometimes the shading i
n my flowers was too heavy, the veins in the leaves too thick. Often I needed just the illusion of colour, a nuance, the faintest blush.

  I had to look away. I remembered another birthday, another gathering of families around the fire. Yet we had not been smiling; we had stared into the flames in stunned silence. The pain was passing now, allowing me to breathe.

  Edmund would have wanted this: he would have wanted me to be happy.

  Mother ducked expertly as Young Emerson reached up to catch her feathers, handing him some gingerbread instead to feed the animals. He staggered across the carpet to join the others and she swung her foot off the cushion, patting the chaise longue beside her. ‘Our present cannot be wrapped, my dear. We’ve decided to build you a new walled garden – next to the gatehouse at Trenwyn.’

  Papa’s smile broadened. ‘So you can distribute your herbs without everyone marching across our lawns.’

  ‘Not that we don’t like your visiting apothecaries and physicians, my dear.’ Mother glanced at Luke, smiling her most endearing smile. ‘Of course we do . . . it’s just . . . Well, your father thinks they mess up the gravel.’

  ‘Very tedious. No sooner the stones are raked back, another horse and cart comes tearing up the drive. Endless stones scattering everywhere.’

  ‘And sometimes, we’re not dressed for company. Your visitors seem rather shocked to see me rowing on the river – or fishing.’ She winked at her adoring grandsons. ‘And sometimes they get shot with bows and arrows, don’t they, boys?’

  ‘Shot and held prisoner, Grandma.’

  ‘Indeed. Though we do let them down eventually.’

  Despite the heat from the fire, Cordelia’s cheeks went ashen. What Mother knew would strengthen, Cordelia believed would weaken. Far better to keep Cordelia in the dark. ‘Down?’ she whispered.

  Mother shrugged. ‘From the treehouse. Oh, don’t look like that, my dear – it’s not that high. Most of them survive.’

  I hugged Papa. Another walled garden and my output could double. My herbs were already distributed all over Cornwall, but demand was outgrowing supply. Now I could fulfil all my orders and my promise to supply the new infirmary.

  Papa’s bear grip tightened. ‘You can draw up your exact requirements, my dear – any shape and size you require and as many new gardeners as you need. We’ll start building it in the spring.’

  Luke had his back to the fire, the love in his eyes making my heart soar like a bird. Dearest Luke, with his shy smile and his sense of honour, his integrity, his complete understanding. His determination to stand back while I grieved, never demanding anything from me. Always professional, always asking my opinion; discussing tinctures and balms, giving me lists of the herbs he needed, asking whether I could suggest others. He had unlocked my heart so completely, and now it was his forever.

  His eyes on my eyes, his hand reached into his pocket. ‘That only leaves my present.’ His voice was almost a whisper, the room growing quiet around us. I would say yes, yes, yes. A thousand times, yes. Outside, the sky was darkening and the shutters would soon be closed; we would draw round the fire and play blind man’s buff. My twenty-fifth birthday; the start of my wonderful new life.

  It was a letter he drew out, not the small walnut box. He held it in his hand, his eyes burning mine. ‘My birthday present is on its way, or rather, I should say on his way. This letter is from Mr Burrows of Burrows and Son, the renowned London publishers of botanical prints. Amelia . . . I rescued one of the prints you’d discarded – it wasn’t up to your standard but to me it looked perfect.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And it must have looked perfect to Mr Burrows, too.’

  He unfolded the letter. ‘I shall be venturing down to Somerset and Devon late January and will call on you in early February. I believe Miss Carew has great talent and if this is a discarded painting, then I certainly look forward to seeing her entire collection with a view to publication.’

  Tears filled my eyes. ‘But, Luke . . .’

  ‘You’re not cross with me, are you? Only I knew if I asked, you’d refuse.’

  Such a renowned publisher coming to see my drawings? I was almost too shocked to speak. ‘But, Luke . . . he might not want them . . . they might not be good enough. I’m not ready for them to be seen.’

  ‘You told me you’d nearly finished. That you’d written everything you needed—’

  ‘Yes, I have. I just need to add a few more tinctures – maybe some general health advice from your father’s herbal . . . but to have it published? That’s too much to hope.’

  ‘Why not let Mr Burrows be the judge?’

  ‘The man will be a dammed fool if he doesn’t take them all. Dammed fool. Dammed fine present.’ Papa picked Emerson up, throwing him in the air, tickling him as he caught him. ‘So, you’re to have a famous aunt, are you? What shall we call this book of yours, Amelia?’

  Luke handed me the letter. ‘That’s for Amelia to decide, but my suggestion would be The Lady Herbalist.’ His voice dropped. ‘And I think it should be dedicated to Midshipman Sir Edmund Melville.’

  The pain flooded back. Every plant planted, every painting painted; every early morning and every wakeful night spent thinking of Edmund. Luke’s generosity of spirit was more than I could bear – to enable me to honour Edmund was the kindness present of all.

  Loud knocks echoed from the front door, footsteps hurrying across the hall.

  ‘Is someone else coming to surprise me?’ I asked, blinking back my tears.

  Mother glanced at Mary. ‘Mr Lilly, perhaps?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t believe so. He’s away for another week.’

  I could hear muffled voices, then the doorman entered, bowing, crossing the room with a letter on his silver tray. ‘A letter, m’lady. Straight off the Falmouth Packet.’

  Mother’s back straightened, her smile vanished. She took a deep breath. Every express brought terror, every letter hurried across the hall bringing the same the same stab of dread. Three sons in the navy, three sons held lovingly in her thoughts every moment of every day. I watched her mouth tighten. ‘The poor man must be frozen. Have you offered him some refreshments?’

  ‘Indeed, m’lady. He’s been shown down to the kitchen.’

  All colour had drained from Mother’s face. She looked older, her cheeks ashen. She could hardly hold the letter. ‘But it’s not for me . . . it’s for—’

  She glanced in my direction and the room began to spin.

  Chapter Three

  Their faces were a distant blur. I could not breathe. ‘Some brandy, my dear?’

  I shook my head at Papa’s proffered glass. It’s not his writing. Not his writing.

  Mother’s grip was strong and comforting. ‘It’s from Portugal,’ she said, ‘but it seems to have been everywhere – there are so many scribbled directions, I’m surprised it’s reached you at all.’

  Elizabeth must have helped me to the chaise longue, Cordelia must have gathered up the boys and ushered them quickly through the door. The sudden silence was unnerving, just the thumping of my heart and my head swimming. I looked for Luke. He was facing the fireplace, standing with straight shoulders and a stiff back. Mary Lilly reached for a chair and sat down, staring at her clasped hands.

  The writing was faded and almost impossible to read. It was well formed, but it was not his writing. The paper was worn, torn at the edges, a crease across the middle, half-obscuring my name. The wax was sealed with a cross inside a heart. ‘Shall I open it?’ whispered Mother.

  ‘No. I’ll open it.’

  I slipped the seal and fought to breathe. It was his writing, his dearest, dearest writing. I felt giddy, faint, the blood rushing from my head. It was four years since the news of his loss, eighteen months since the confirmation of his death. I had given up all hope. The letter shook in my hands.

  ‘He’s alive . . . his writing’s very shaky . . . but then it stops. It just stops and another hand takes over. I can’t read it – it’s in a language I don�
��t understand.’

  Elizabeth’s arm closed round me. ‘Would you prefer to keep your letter private?’

  Tears streamed down my cheeks. ‘I can’t make sense of it.’

  She took the letter. ‘He’s in The Convert of the Sacred Heart, São Luís, Brazil. To Miss Amelia Carew, Town House Truro. August 4th 1796.’ She stopped. ‘But that’s . . . almost eighteen months ago.’

  My heart seized. ‘Oh no . . . I didn’t see that.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘The writing’s very shaky – it’s very hard to read. It says . . . My beloved Amelia, I’m well, thank the Lord, though this is the first day I’ve been allowed out of bed to write. I’ve been given half an hour, and then I shall be placed back in bed by the good nuns who have saved my life. Only half an hour to tell you everything. Yellow fever has me in its grip, such that I can hardly hold the pen, but I will be strong again soon and I will search out the swiftest ship—’

  Elizabeth looked up. ‘That’s where he stops. The rest of the letter is written in a different hand.’ She turned the page. ‘There’s nothing else in Edmund’s writing – it looks like Spanish . . . no, I suppose if it’s Brazil, it’s probably Portuguese?’

  Papa took the letter. ‘Who reads Portuguese round here? Elizabeth, have you any ships in from Portugal? In Falmouth we’d find any number of Portuguese speakers, but here, in Truro . . . in January?’ He turned to Mother. ‘I might have to go to Falmouth to get it read.’

  I fought to breathe. I was in a lime-washed room, a huge wooden cross hanging above me. The floor was polished red tiles, a fierce sun slanting through the grilles of the window. They were helping him from an iron bed, gently positioning him at a simple wooden table. Edmund was grasping the pen, trying to stop his hands from shaking. My beloved Edmund, half delirious with fever, reaching for a pen to tell me he was alive.