The Second Lady Southvale (7 page)

She didn’t know at exactly what point she secretly decided to go to Philip anyway; it was just something that seemed to happen. She didn’t like being deceitful, but liked even less the prospect of an indefinite separation from the man she loved so very much. Her parents would insist upon waiting, and that she would no longer do. She didn’t tell anyone about her plan, except Hetty, who was to come with her, and she acquired time for herself by informing her mother she was going to stay with a friend in Baltimore.

She and the maid set off in the carriage, with only a small
amount of baggage, for to have taken more would have aroused suspicions at the mansion. From the port she wrote a brief, explanatory note to her mother, begging her to forgive her and to understand why she’d taken such an enormous step. The note was sent back to Washington with the carriage, and the
Corinth
sailed on the evening tide.

The weather was fine and clear, with the crispness of early autumn in the air. A light breeze whipped tiny white crests to the waves, and the setting sun shone blood-red on the water.

Rosalind stood at the stern of the ship, watching the coast of her homeland slipping away behind the western horizon. When she could see it no more, she gathered her warm cloak around her and made her way to the bow, gazing eastward, toward Europe. She must look to the future now, and the new life that stretched before her as the second Lady Southvale.

But happiness was still going to be denied her, although she didn’t know it yet, for the Philip she was running away to was a very different man from the one she’d known in Washington. Very different indeed.

During the early days of the voyage they sighted a number of other vessels, including several British frigates, but the
Corinth
sailed on unimpeded. They didn’t witness any engagements, although one night they were awakened by the sound of cannon beyond the moonlit northern horizon.

Three days out, the weather changed and the light breeze became a fierce gale, but to the
Corinth
’s advantage. The packet pitched like a cork when the storm first began, but then was driven swiftly before the wind, soon giving Rosalind cause to hope that the crossing would only take three weeks. But if the
Corinth
fared well out of the storm, others seemed less
fortunate
. One day, at about the point of no return in the crossing, the lookout sighted an overturned longboat, and the captain used his telescope to make out the name on its stern. It had come from the
Queen of Falmouth
, another packet that sailed regularly between America and Britain. There was great sadness on board the
Corinth
, for there was little doubt that the other packet had foundered in the storm.

Rosalind had swiftly discovered that she was not a good sailor, and had been unwell almost from the outset of the voyage. She remained in the cabin, feeling quite dreadful, but Hetty enjoyed the sea, and was often to be found on deck. Rosalind advised her not to spend so much time in the damp, cold air, but the maid found the temptation too great and, as the
voyage entered its third week, began to pay the price of her foolhardiness. By the time the lookouts had begun to search ahead for the first glimpse of the English shore and Rosalind had at last found her sea legs, Hetty had to take to her bed with a high fever.

The maid was still very ill when the lighthouse at Lizard Point shone through the gloomy evening, and Rosalind was relieved to know that by dawn they’d be in sight of Falmouth, for Hetty was in need of a doctor.

The first gray fingers of dawn reached across the sky outside and the English shore slid swiftly by on the port side. At first it was all pale and indistinct, but gradually scenery could be made out, and the colors of autumn. The wind was still very fresh and strong, but there were no clouds in the sky now, and soon the sun rose brilliantly over the eastern skyline. It was the
twenty-ninth
of October, and the voyage had taken just over three weeks.

Rosalind dressed in readiness to disembark as the
Corinth
slid between the twin forts guarding the entrance to Falmouth’s anchorage, Carrick Roads. It was one of the finest natural harbors in the world, and a haven for many vessels, but although it was sheltered from the full force of the weather, the air was still fresh and cold. Rosalind chose warm clothes, a high-necked apricot wool gown with long sleeves, and over it she put a fur-trimmed brown velvet cloak with a hood. She did the best she could with her hair, pinning it into a reasonably adequate knot, and then she attended to Hetty, who was now far too ill to leave her bed.

Removing the maid’s voluminous nightgown, Rosalind managed to dress her in a loose-fitting blue chemise gown, then she plaited the long flaxen hair so that it would stay neat. Wrapping Hetty in her warmest cloak, Rosalind left her resting on the bed and went up to the deck to see how long it would be before they could go ashore.

The rattle of the anchor chain greeted her as she emerged
from the hatchway, and the
Corinth
shuddered a little. The breeze snatched at Rosalind’s hood and blew playfully around her ankles as she went to stand by the rail for her first true look at England.

Carrick Roads ran more or less from south to north, a
sheltered
stretch of deep water that broke up inland into long creeks that fingered their way between wooded hills brilliant with the russets and golds of late October. Beyond the woods, rising in a glory of lingering purple heather and brilliant golden gorse, she could see open moorland rolling away into the heart of Cornwall.

Falmouth itself nestled against the foot of the western shore. It wasn’t a beautiful town, but its importance as a port was evident in the vast number of vessels lying at anchor all around. She saw the flags of many countries, from Russia and Iceland in the north, to Turkey and Portugal in the south. Two East Indiamen were moored side by side some two hundred yards offshore, and near them she could see a brigantine and a revenue cutter. Numerous schooners, yachts, and packets were elsewhere on the sunlit water, and a whaler was just weighing anchor in the lee of the town. She saw a squadron of navy vessels, the red ensign fluttering from their masts and sterns, and she recognized the name of one corvette for it had been involved in several incidents in the blockade of New York harbor.

As she gazed at the corvette, she wondered if war had broken out at home during the past few weeks. She wondered, too, what had happened when her flight had been discovered. She felt very guilty for having run away, but Philip was the most important person in her life now, and she needed to be with him.

One of the ship’s officers came to speak to her. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Carberry, but the customs boat is just coming alongside, and when they’ve finished, the captain says he’ll put the first available boat at your disposal so that you can take
your maid ashore to a doctor.’

‘Thank you, I’m very grateful.’

‘Not at all, miss.’

‘I know we’ve only just arrived, but is there any way of knowing if war…?’

‘There’s no war as yet, miss – at least, not according to the master of the
Tagus
, the Portuguese merchantman lying just over there. He was rowed just past our bow a few minutes ago, and we called down to him for news. All seems to be still well over here, but there’s no way of knowing what may have happened on the other side of the Atlantic.’

‘No, I suppose there isn’t.’ She looked at the shore again. A few more incidents like that with the
Tartarus
at Norfolk, and anything could have happened.

It seemed to take the customs men an age to search the ship, and Rosalind remained on the deck for a while longer, just looking at the scene. She wondered if the Black Horse inn was visible on the shore, or if any of the vessels she could see at anchor belonged to Philip, but then the cool breeze began to make her feel a little cold and she returned to the cabin, where Hetty was sleeping restlessly on the bed, her cheeks still
burning
with fever.

At last it was time to go ashore, and the captain sent some sailors to carry the luggage to the waiting rowing boat, and to help with Hetty, for the maid was too weak and ill to walk unaided. Rosalind was very worried as the men carried Hetty down the rope ladder to the bobbing boat, then she was
climbing
down herself, shivering as the stream of cold air swept over her, lifting her hem to reveal her ankles. The boat shoved off and the two men at the oars began to row steadily toward the shore.

As they neared Falmouth, Rosalind saw how very old the town was. The buildings were rambling, with low roofs, and small mullioned windows, and those by the quayside seemed to have their foundations in the water itself. Soon she could hear
sounds; the rattle of carts, the ring of iron-toed sea boots upon cobbles, and the clink-clink of pattens, for it had rained heavily the day before and there were many puddles. The customhouse was very busy, with a cluster of small vessels moored alongside, some of them coastal craft, others merely used to ply between the shore and the ships at anchor out on the water.

Seagulls rose in a screaming cloud from the quay as the rowing boat nudged the foot of some damp, seaweed-strewn stone steps. A nearby fishing vessel had just brought its catch ashore and the gulls were fighting for any scraps. The two sailors made the rowing boat fast and then carried Hetty
carefully
up the steps. As Rosalind hurried up behind them, she saw them hail an old man with a ponycart, which was led over immediately so that the sick maid could be laid gently inside. The luggage was then quickly carried up from the boat, and when it had been loaded on the cart next to Hetty, the old man asked Rosalind where she wished to be taken.

‘To the Black Horse, if you please.’

He was a grizzled former sailor, bearded and ruddy, and he gave her a toothless grin. ‘American, eh?’

‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously, not knowing quite what to expect.

‘I sailed out of Americky many a time. ’Tis a grand place.’

Relieved, she managed a smile. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Right, then – the Black Horse it is. Daniel Penruthin keeps the finest house in all Falmouth, so you’ll be well-looked-after there.’

Daniel Penruthin? The landlord who was an old friend of Philip’s?

Rosalind sat beside the old man, and the ponycart began to make its way along the quay before turning up into the town.

The streets were narrow and cobbled, and there were many alleys where the buildings seemed to crowd overhead, as if wishing to shut out the sunlight. It was a far cry from the spaciousness and grandeur of Washington. There were English
voices all around, mostly with the same accent as the old man’s, which she guessed must be Cornish, but occasionally she heard a more refined tone that reminded her of Philip.

She saw a number of soldiers in red coats, as well as
blue-uniformed
naval officers, and was reminded that Britain was already at war, with Bonaparte’s France. There were
anti-French
placards on some walls, and caricatures of the emperor in a print-shop window, but nowhere did she detect any
hostility
toward her own nation.

There was congestion at a crossroads, and the ponycart had to halt for a few minutes. She heard a group of men talking on the corner nearby. They were discussing the loss of the
Queen of Falmouth
, for news of the sighting of the longboat had already spread through the town, as always happened when a ship was missing or lost.

The Black Horse was a large hostelry in the very heart of the town, and was obviously an important establishment, judging by the stagecoaches and general bustle in its vicinity. It was a tall building, with a galleried courtyard in the middle, which the ponycart had to wait to enter because a stagecoach was just departing.

Rosalind stared up at the stagecoach in utter amazement, for there were at least eight outside passengers clinging to their seats on the top. There were four inside passengers as well, and the vehicle swayed alarmingly as it negotiated the turn into the steep road that led up out of the town. Several small dogs barked excitedly, dashing after the coach until the coachman’s whip flicked in their direction, and they fell back.

The old man urged the ponycart into the crowded yard, where two more stagecoaches were waiting. There was no sunlight because the inn was so tall all around, and Rosalind looked up at the galleries. A maid was hanging sheets out over one of the rails and a waiter was shouting down an order to one of his fellows by the tap-room door. A bell rang as the ticket clerk leaned out of his little wooden office to announce the
imminent departure of the Bodmin stage, and the team of the vehicle concerned tossed their heads expectantly as the
passengers
began to climb on board.

A fine private carriage drove in as the ponycart drew to a standstill in a relatively quiet corner, and a fashionable lady and gentleman alighted, for the Black Horse was considered to be suitable for all walks of life. The old man called to two porters to assist him with Hetty and the luggage, and Rosalind followed them through a low doorway that led into a whitewashed entrance hall with a gleaming red-tiled floor. Hetty was placed on a high-backed settle against the wall, and Rosalind sat with her, watching the lady and gentleman who’d just arrived. They were talking to a tall, white-aproned man whose confident demeanor suggested that in all probability he was Daniel Penruthin.

The trunks and valises were placed beside the settle, and Rosalind gave the old man some coins for his trouble. They were American coins, for she hadn’t had time to change them, but he didn’t seem to mind, for it was simple enough to go to the customhouse.

When he’d gone, Rosalind looked around again, waiting for the landlord to finish speaking to the lady and gentleman. The entrance hall was long, and a number of doors opened off it, one of them into the dining-room, from where an endless stream of waiters passed to and fro. A staircase rose at the far end of the hall, and she could just make out a paneled landing on the floor above. The smell of cooking hung in the warm air, and a fire crackled in the hearth opposite the settle. Next to the fire there were several tables on which stood jugs of clean hot water, bowls, and piles of freshly laundered towels, for the use of guests arriving after long journeys.

A boy who cleaned boots hurried past, and then a barber went quickly to the staircase, followed by his assistant with a bowl of hot water and a razor. Porters struggled in with other people’s luggage, and a departing gentleman grumbled under
his breath that the place was becoming far too noisy for one to hear one’s own thoughts. Rosalind almost had to agree with him, for somewhere on one of the floors above a woman was singing. She had a beautiful trained voice and was going through her scales, but it wasn’t long before the sound became tiresome.

It was all quite chaotic, and very alien to one who was used to the peace and quiet of a vast Washington mansion. She suddenly felt very lonely and far away from home, and she quickly took off her glove in order to look at Philip’s signet ring. She’d be with him again soon, and then everything would be all right.

The lady and gentleman finished their conversation with the landlord, who called a porter to escort them up to the room that had been reserved for them. Then he turned and approached the settle. He was a big man, with a raw-boned, rosy face and dark eyes. His starched apron crackled as he moved, and his boots squeaked a little. He wore a clean white shirt, a long brown waistcoat, and leather breeches, and his glance went quickly to Hetty’s flushed face.