The Cornish Captive E-Book

Nicola Pryce

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The sixth novel in a stunning series set in eighteenth-century Cornwall, perfect for fans of Poldark, Tracy Rees and Dinah Jefferies Cornwall, 1800. Imprisoned on false pretences, Madeleine Pelligrew, former mistress of Pendenning Hall, has spent the last 14 years shuttled between increasingly destitute and decrepit mad houses. When a strange man appears out of the blue to release her, she can't quite believe that her freedom comes without a price. Hiding her identity, Madeleine determines to discover the truth about what happened all those years ago. Unsure who to trust and alone in the world, Madeleine strikes a tentative friendship with a French prisoner on parole, Captain Pierre de la Croix. But as she learns more about the reasons behind her imprisonment, and about those who schemed to hide her away for so long, she starts to wonder if Pierre is in fact the man he says he is. As Madeleine's past collides with her present, can she find the strength to follow her heart, no matter the personal cost?

Leseprobe

NICOLA PRYCE trained as a nurse at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London. She has always loved literature and completed an Open University degree in Humanities. She is a qualified adult literacy support volunteer and lives with her husband in the Blackdown Hills in Somerset. Together they sail the south coast of Cornwall in search of adventure.

Also by Nicola Pryce

Pengelly’s Daughter

The Captain’s Girl

The Cornish Dressmaker

The Cornish Lady

A Cornish Betrothal

Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2022 by Corvus,an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Nicola Pryce, 2022

The moral right of Nicola Pryce to be identified as the authorof this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in anyform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyrightowner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’simagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 459 8

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 460 4

Printed in Great Britain

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An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

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For Clare

Family Tree

BODMIN

PENDRISSICK MADHOUSE

Madeleine Pelligrew

Former Mistress of Pendenning Hall

Rowan

Servant girl

Marcel Rablais

French citizen

Mr and Mrs George Gillis

Proprietors of Pendrissick Madhouse

TRAVELLERS ON THE STAGECOACH

Captain Pierre de la Croix

French naval captain on parole

Thomas Pearce

Silk pedlar

FOSSE

PENDENNING HALL

Previous owner Joshua Pelligrew (1745–1786)

Jonathan Troon

Steward

Mrs Pumfrey

Housekeeper

Ella

Maid

Phillip Randall

Previous steward

COOMBE HOUSE

Eva Pengelly

Mother of Rose Polcarrow

Mrs Munroe

Housekeeper and cook

Samuel

Butler and general servant

Tamsin

Housemaid

Matthew Reith

Attorney at law

Alice Reith

James Polcarrow’s stepmother

Oliver Jenkins

Butcher

Thomas Scantlebury

Shipwright

Reverend Bloomsdale

Rector

THE OLD FORGE

William Cotterell

Engineer

Elowyn Cotterell

Dressmaker

Eva Cotterell

Daughter

Billy Bosco

Friend

POLCARROW (Baronetcy created 1590)

Henderson

Butler

ADMIRAL HOUSE

I am not mad.

I am of sound mind.

I was born Madeleine Eugenia de Bourg

in the Commune of Saint-Malo.

My father is Jean-Baptist de Bourg.

My mother was Marie-Louise Dupont.

My brother is Joseph Emery de Bourg.

I am not mad.

I am of sound mind.

My husband was Joshua William Pelligrew,

Master of Pendenning Hall

in the County of Cornwall.

The King is George III.

William Pitt is First Minister.

The river through London is the Thames.

The river through Paris is La Seine.

Eggs can be made into soufflé,

omelettes and méringue.

I am not mad.

I am of sound mind . . .

Attrapez-les!

A deserted farmhouse, Port Soif, Guernsey

Monday 26th May 1800, 6 a.m.

‘Nothing, Citizen. No papers, names, addresses. I’ve searched everywhere.’

A heavy hand thumped the oak table. ‘Search again.’

The man’s voice faltered. ‘The bread must be three days old . . . the milk in the jug’s sour. There’s evidence of hurried packing – wardrobes and drawers left open.’

Jacques Martin swung to face his subordinate, his face livid. ‘I said, search again. They always leave something. Find me receipts . . . evidence of who they know. Names and addresses. Where they’ve been, where they shop.’

Early dawn filtered through the small casement, lighting the jumbled mess of overturned furniture, the drawers emptied of all cutlery and flung across the floor, the glasses smashed against the flagstones. Uplifted rugs lay strewn across the room, the wooden shutters hanging half-open. He had seen all this before. Slipping through his fingers. English spies, like silent snakes in long grass. But not these. He clenched his fingers as if to grip the necks that would soon be his. ‘Search the well. Under the bucket, not just in it.’

They would have left something. Some trail to follow.

Across the dunes, the sea glinted pink under the rising sun; a desolate, half-deserted farmhouse in a concealed sandy bay. Did they think him so stupid he would not find them? A steady stream of documents and ciphers smuggled to this uninhabited stretch to be secreted to London – organised by a man so elusive he could disappear in plain sight?

Royalist traitors. Snakes, the lot of them.

He watched his companion wind the bucket up from the well. His back hurt, the stiffness in his joints exacerbated by the cold dampness of the empty house. A glance in the mirror reflected his heavy stance, the physique of a sailor; a stocky, dark-haired man known for his ill-temper and ruthless methods of interrogation. First blackmail, then the threat of violence against their wives and children. Then the slow removal of fingers and ears. They always talked. He was not here by chance; evidence had mounted, and if they found nothing he would have the house watched.

Striding to the back door, he stood oblivious to the bird singing in the wind-swept tree. The dripping bucket was turned upside down with a shake of the head. His subordinate was showing fear, glancing anxiously across the courtyard. That was how it should be. All his men should fear him. How else could his network infiltrate every corner of England and Ireland? His methods worked because he instilled fear.

His agents placed in the very heart of London society – innkeepers, lawyers, servants, all passing him a steady stream of intelligence. Coffee shops, printing houses, spies in Edinburgh and Dublin: fishermen, sailors, men posing as émigrés; a direct line of communication stretching from Ireland, through Cornwall, to his headquarters in Brittany. Then straight up to Paris.

Three hours they had been searching: everything stripped bare, the floorboards prised up, the wooden panelling tapped for hollow spaces. Anger filled him, the unpalatable taste of being outwitted. Fury made him want to strike out. With no one to hit, his only outlet was the milk churn standing by the back door. Kicking it furiously, he scowled as it clattered across the cobbles. The top burst open and white milk frothed as it rolled towards the well.

His companion bent to dip his finger into the spilt milk. Tasting it without a grimace, he looked surprised. ‘It’s fresh, Citizen. Not sour. Must have been left this morning – yesterday at the earliest . . . after they’d gone.’

Like all good hunters, Jacques Martin remained stock-still, barely breathing, the telltale hairs on the back of his neck beginning to prickle. How many times had he told his men to make the drop and leave? Never wait. Never be seen together. Use the secret signs, the top button missing on a jacket, the left-hand tear in the hem of a coat. Never speak. No direct contact. Nothing to incriminate the person who is to pick up the package. He almost laughed it was so obvious – a man with a mule cart delivering milk!

‘Search the contents.’

Another churn remained by the door. ‘No, wait . . .’ Instinctively, he knew it would be hidden in plain sight. He took hold of the handles, shaking the churn vigorously. It was lighter, certainly not full of milk. With a deft flick of his wrist he reached for his knife and prised open the lid, a thrill of joy surging through him. His hand touched leather as he knew it would. ‘As I said, they always leave something.’

The bag was hard to retrieve, stuffed firmly through the small opening, and his volley of oaths echoed across the cobbles. He was cursing more with pleasure than annoyance, the pleasure of the chase, the excitement of a find. The bag was of medium size, calf-skin with elaborate brass studs around the base. It would be empty, of course. They were always empty, until you ripped open the inner lining.

It was well stitched and hard to tear, his fingers fumbling as his smile broadened. Visceral gratification accompanied his rising anticipation. He was closing in. He would soon know their names and their contacts – and the traitors who shielded them.

A single letter lay folded behind the satin lining. Flinging down the bag, he held it to a shaft of sun striking the wall behind him. Addressed to Citoyen Louis Le Blanc, it was sealed with red wax, the writing neat and easily readable. A smile of contempt curled his thin lips. Louis Le Blanc. It was honestly laughable.

He broke the seal, his eyes sharpening at the name on the enclosed letter. Madame Lefèvre. His breath came sharp, his heart jolting. Lefèvre. So, his fear was justified. The man who once called himself Arnaud Lefèvre was still in charge of this den of spies. He had not seen that name for seven years – Arnaud Lefèvre had vanished and never been traced. Yet here was the name, Lefèvre. Not addressed to him, but to Madame Lefèvre. She must be his wife.

His pulse quickened, his hunter’s instinct sharpening. His gut never lied. Only one man had outwitted him so completely – disappearing into thin air, always one step ahead. But not this time. Sweat covered his brow, his heart hammering. Slipping the point of his knife beneath the seal, he unfolded the letter, gripping it tighter when he saw it was in French.

The postmark was from Bodmin, the letter written in a different hand.

Bodmin Moor

Thursday 22nd May 1800

Dear Madame Lefèvre,

After seven years, I can joyfully inform you that I have found Madeleine Pelligrew. She is alive and is in better health than expected considering where she is, and to what terrible injustice she has been subjected.

As you suspected, she has been moved from madhouse to madhouse. Each time her name is changed and all trace of her captivity wiped from the records. Only by minute examination of the walls of these inhumane and terrible places have I managed to follow her. My search has taken many false turns, across many counties, and there have been times when my despondency convinced me I would never find her. Yet, every new place she entered, she scratched her name and date on the walls and that has been her saving.

Since finding her, I have followed your instructions. I have in my possession two forged doctor’s letters certifying her as no longer insane, and I have enough money for a set of new clothes. I would rather spare you the conditions in which this poor woman has been held; suffice to say, I will do everything in my power to keep her safe and bring about her freedom.

I will return her to her brother in Saint-Malo. I need only your instructions.

Your humble servant,Marcel Rablais

He knew to remain stony-faced. So, Madame Lefèvre was to help a madwoman held captive in a madhouse? He studied the letter again. Bodmin Moor. Names of his agents flooded his mind but one stood out from the rest. A smile broke on his lips and he turned away. The perfect agent in exactly the right place; and what was more, he was one of his best. It was so simple, it could have been child’s play.

His blood was up, his smile hard to suppress. Madeleine Pelligrew would lead them to Madame Lefèvre, who would lead them straight to Arnaud Lefèvre. The irritating subordinate was staring at him with dog-like expectation, and Jacques Martin’s scowl deepened.

‘Nothing.’ He added a volley of oaths for added realism. ‘Nothing but a wasted journey. An unsigned letter warning them they may have visitors.’ He allowed himself a sarcastic smile. ‘I’ve wasted enough time. Get my horse. Remain here and watch the house. Any more milk deliveries and you’re to follow without being seen. Report only to me. Is that understood?’

The young man nodded, a flicker of fear crossing his face as he stood to attention.

No one must know of this letter – no one. This callow insubordinate needed to be silenced. He would send someone tonight – someone whose loyalty he would test. There were plenty of young men lining up to be of service to the Mayor of Saint-Malo.

Mounting his mare, Jacques Martin’s mind switched to more favourable pursuits. After sending his instructions to his agent in Bodmin, he would visit Madame Berthe. The thrill of the chase was always pleasurable, but a find like this left him insatiable. Soon, he would know everything about these illusive British spies – their names, the ship they used, their codes, their ciphers, and, most importantly, the people who shielded them.

He spurred on his horse. Royalist traitors. Snakes, the lot of them.

Liberté

Chapter One

Pendrissick Madhouse, Bodmin Moor

Thursday 22nd May 1800, 11.30 a.m.

‘Draw the folly again – up on the hill, with the arches and steps.’ Her eyes blinked back at me, far too large for her pale, pinched face. ‘That’s my favourite of all yer drawings.’

I shook my head. ‘No, my love, you must learn to write. Start again . . . An R, like this, then O . . . then W . . . A . . . N. See how the letters form your name? Rowan. Hold the nail steady and start at the top. We’ve no time for drawing. Drawing is for times long passed.’

Long, long passed.

A shaft of sun squeezed through the gap in the barred window, the straw pallet pushed against the stone wall. Rowan scraped my carefully collected brick dust into a pile, smoothing it flat with her sore hands. Taking the rusty nail, her movements were slow, her fingers clasped, her tongue following every movement as she scratched the dirt. There it was again, the folly. Always the folly, and I rued the day I first drew it for her.

‘Were you a very grand lady, Elizabeth?’

Tears pooled in my eyes. I hated them all, yet I loved this wisp of a girl. She had been sent to me – this thin, unschooled, dirty-faced, lank-haired, large-eyed, sweet angel – sent straight from heaven. My daughter’s age, perhaps a year or two younger.

I knew my baby would be a girl – a true beauty, her father’s spoiled darling, my constant and loving companion. She would have sung like a bird, played the harp like an angel.

Darling baby, did you think I’d left you? Hush, my love – crying so piteously. Here . . . let me rock you back to sleep. I clutched my shawl, cradling her in my arms. She must not wake, I must sing to her. My beloved child, warm and safe in my arms. I’ll sing you a lullaby, my darling – one my mother used to sing. It’s your favourite – hush, my baby, do not wake. There . . . sleep soundly. You’re safe.

Rowan started backing away, a frightened look in those huge, dark eyes, and I smiled my farewell, hearing the lock turn as I resumed my lullaby. She always left when my daughter needed to sleep, but soon she would come back and we would take tea on the lawn below the terrace. I would order macaroons and wear my best straw bonnet – the one decked with blue ribbons. How Joshua loves that bonnet! I was wearing it when he proposed – so unromantic, as it turned out. He just turned to me and said, How would you like to be Mistress of Pendenning Hall? And I had answered, I’d like that very much, thank you.

It still makes me laugh. No, I must not laugh; it will wake the baby.

Friday 6th June 1800, 5 a.m.

The crow of the cockerel. By his call, I knew him to be very large, his comb full-blooded and red, wobbling as he stretches out his long neck. He would have a fine plume of glossy tail feathers and a puffed-up chest. He must be perching on the branch, just out of sight.

Half-an-inch gap was more than ever before – a whole slice of the outside world, the straw-strewn backyard, the grey stones of the granite barn opposite. Pressing my eye against the gap, I could see a gate, and a pool of slops glistening black in the moonlight. When the sun struck the pool, it turned murky grey. North facing, because shadows soon fell across the yard, and by midday the light dimmed. There he went again, so proud to herald the dawn.

You didn’t wake me, my friend. The terrible itching did.

Half-an-inch’s glimpse on the world was so much better than total darkness, far preferable to a cellar or an attic. Cellars bring rats, attics bring bats. Filthy farm outhouses may bring mice and lice, but at least I had Chanticleer.

Of course he’s called Chanticleer, dearest husband! Remember the cockerels in Clos-Poulet?Yes, of course you do.

The nail had lost its sharp point but it worked well enough. Another small line added to the others – every day accounted for; every seventh day a line through the others, every fourth week a ring around it. Every twelfth month, an underscore. One year and forty weeks. In twelve weeks’ time, they would move me again.

I must pinch away the lice before I scratch myself raw. The shaft of light would last just long enough for me to shake out my bedding and find the lice. Find them and kill them. Lice, both of them.

Charles Cavendish. Phillip Randall. Lice, to be squashed between my fingers.

Footsteps stomped across the yard, a shadow passing my small gap. The lock turned and the door was flung open. Mrs Gillis stood glaring at me, a pair of manacles gripped in her huge hands. ‘Ye’re to come with us.’

I fell to my knees, backing through the straw. ‘Please. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve been no trouble.’

Rowan slipped silently behind her, tears filling her eyes. Mrs Gillis handed her the chains and shoved her towards me. ‘Please . . . Elizabeth, please don’t fight me,’ Rowan whispered. ‘If I don’t do this, she’ll call fer Mr Gillis . . . an’ he’s got a terrible fist on him. Please, let me do it.’

I shook her off, pulling away. ‘I’ve done nothing . . . nothing.’

‘But it’s good, honest it is. There’s a man come fer ye . . . he says he knows ye.’

I thought I would be sick. They were too early. I had another twelve weeks. ‘He doesn’t know me – they never know me. They just say they do, but they lie – all of them.’ I had to make them understand. ‘Let me stay, Mrs Gillis. Please, let me stay. I’m no bother. Don’t let them take me.’

Her livid hue was visible in the dim light. Her scowl deepened and I cowered, though there was no place to hide. She had a fist on her as fierce as her husband’s, her punch flooring me on several occasions, yet the thought of what might lie ahead was unbearable. I had Rowan, I had Chanticleer. I had rays of sunlight and shafts of moonlight.

Rowan reached for my wrists. ‘Please, Elizabeth. Please . . . it’s for the best.’

I could not part from her. Not her. Not my angel from heaven. ‘Don’t let them take me,’ I whispered. ‘They keep me chained up . . . sometimes they starve me. They beat me and tie my arms behind my back. Sometimes they make me sit all day in a freezing bath. I’m not mad. Tell them I’m of sound mind. Tell them I’m not who they say I am.’

Her voice caught, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘He looks kind . . . honest he does. He says ye’ve been kept wrongly – he has a cart outside.’

‘That’s what they all say. They come all smiles and sweetness and say I’m to go home, but the minute I’m in the carriage they bind me. They chain me. They force fiery drinks down my throat. When I wake up I’m in another cell with another name. I’m not Elizabeth Cooper.’

‘And her feet,’ Mrs Gillis bellowed from the door.

‘Here, please let me . . .’ Rowan clamped my feet.

Hands and feet, the chain heavy, the iron clasps cold against my wrists, the pain excruciating against the open wound on my ankle. I tried to pull back, forcing myself against the damp stone wall. Rather this pigpen than the unknown. Each time, the conditions grew worse. At first I had a bed with linen, a chair and table to dine at; I had tablecloths and goblets, even my own decanter of port. Then the steady decline into filth, each move affording more hardship, my rescuer offering the new proprietor less money, exaggerating my madness, laughing at my delusions of grandeur. I was a French parlour maid, a trollop, not a fine lady. I was dangerous, a threat to others. My head was to be shaved, my fingernails kept short. Nothing sharp or I would have their eyes out.

‘I heard them talkin’,’ Rowan whispered. ‘The gentleman knows yer brother. He’s got letters . . .’

‘They all have letters – they all know my brother. Rowan, I’m not mad. Please, promise me . . . somehow go to the great house in Fosse and tell Lady Polcarrow that Charles Cavendish had my husband killed. Tell them the dredging deal was fraudulent . . . that my husband was murdered.’

Mrs Gillis stormed towards me, wrenching my arms as she heaved up the chain, and I stumbled forward. As light as a feather, she had no difficulty dragging me across the courtyard. At the door to the main house she hauled me to my feet, her thin lips pursing. ‘Elizabeth Cooper, ye’re to do as ye’re told.’

‘I’m not mad. I’m of sound mind. Please . . . call me by my correct name.’

A sharp slap stung my cheek. ‘That’s enough. Ye keep quiet, right? Not a word other than we treated ye well an’ ye’re grateful for all we’ve done fer ye.’

I nodded, taking a deep breath, knowing I must give them no grounds to prove insanity. Half-pulling, half-shoving, she led me along a dim passageway. Light filtered through a half-open door and she bent to undo the fetters round my ankles. Straightening with a whinge of pain, her bosom heaved, a wheeze in her cough. ‘Not a word against us, ye understand? Not . . . one . . . single . . . word.’

I nodded, biting my lip, waiting to be ushered into the room. Early sunlight streamed through the small lattice window, the huge hunched figure of Mr Gillis sitting at his desk. A stranger was standing by the fireplace, but that was to be expected. They were always strangers, never the same man twice. Mrs Gillis poked me forward, her finger digging painfully into my lower back. The room was thick with tobacco smoke, the carpet and furnishings faded, the air foul. The stranger turned, a look of horror on his face.

‘I am not insane,’ I said, in my calmest manner. ‘I am Madeleine Pelligrew, born Madeleine Eugenia de Bourg. My father is Jean-Baptist de Bourg. My mother was Marie-Louise Dupont. My brother is Joseph Emery de Bourg—’

She gagged me then, her shawl cutting off all further speech, squeezing even the chance to breathe. Each time I was more fragile, my strength starved from me. I was as weak as a kitten. A sparrow. They knew I had no strength to fight.

‘Unhand her at once.’ The stranger sounded furious. ‘Draw up a chair. Allow this poor lady some dignity.’ In the startled silence, his voice rose. ‘Bring her some brandy.’

I could not speak. I could hardly breathe. Inside I was screaming, No brandy. No brandy . . . the brandy will be drugged.

Chapter Two

Refusing the drink, I stared back at the stranger. There was kindness in the brown eyes staring so intently back at me. Not the love I saw in Rowan’s, but definite compassion. It turned to fury as he confronted Mr Gillis. ‘Mrs Pelligrew needs a hot bath before she leaves.’

‘Elizabeth Cooper has been placed in my care and will remain so, until I hear otherwise.’ George Gillis stood up, his heavy frame leaning on his outstretched palms. He glanced at the pile of papers on the desk. ‘I’ve been paid for two years. That’s food and lodging and clothes – and funeral expenses should it be necessary. She’s under doctor’s orders to be retained for her own good and for the safety of others.’

‘The safety of others? This frail woman who might blow over in a puff of wind! Really, sir, you astonish me.’ He had a French accent. A definite French accent.

‘Yes, Mr . . . What did you say your name was? Rabbly?’

‘Marcel Rablais, at your service, madame.’ He was addressing me, his eyes kind again. ‘I’m a friend of your brother – Monsieur Joseph de Bourg. I’m here to release you and take you safely home.’

In his fifties, medium height, he stood with command, his voice full of authority. His wig was brown; his jacket and trousers, once the finest cloth, looked worn. His boots were polished but badly scuffed, his manners formal as he bowed to introduce himself. Respectable, if slightly shabby. They were all respectable, only this time they had chosen to send a Frenchman and had decided to use my real name. Perhaps they thought it would make me go quietly.

‘Don’t let her size deceive you. A woman like her needs to be locked away from honest folk. She’s a danger to society. She may look meek and fragile, but she lashes out.’

‘I believe we would all lash out, under the circumstances, sir.’

Mr Gillis heaved his great bulk back into his chair, spreading the papers into a fan. ‘You know the rules. In my capacity as a registered Keeper of the Insane, I cannot agree to transfer any of my inmates without the necessary authority. Nor can I enter into any discharge arrangements without the sworn statements of two doctors who have visited the person in question and have both, independently, ascertained her sanity. Which is never going to be the case, Mr Rabbly.’

A blackbird was singing on a branch outside the window, white blossom on the trees, the wild expanse of a purple moor in the distance. The air would be fragrant, scented with wild herbs. There would be fresh dew on the grass beneath my feet.

‘Mrs Pelligrew, please have this . . .’ Marcel Rablais handed me a handkerchief. I had no idea I was crying.

‘And crying doesn’t help. One minute crying, the next shrieking like a fishwife. Then there’s the laughing, and the constant talking to herself – and her demands for tea on the terrace. Or sorbets. Like we can just rustle up a sorbet.’

‘It’s not unusual for a lady to order sorbet.’ Marcel Rablais bent to open the leather bag at his feet. Drawing out a slim case, he laid several sheets of paper on the desk. They were neatly written, with important-looking seals. They always were. ‘I have, here, discharge letters of two eminent physicians who have both examined Elizabeth Cooper and declare her of sound mind. Both are on the board of the Commission for Visiting Madhouses, and I believe, sir, that when you’ve read these letters, you’ll agree Elizabeth Cooper can be safely discharged into my care.’

Mr Gillis’s eyes sharpened; he gave a nod to his wife to shut the door. Swooping forward, he studied the letters carefully. His voice turned gruff, all pretence of civility vanishing. ‘When I visited the lady in question . . . ?’ He stared at Marcel Rablais. ‘We both know no doctors have been anywhere near Elizabeth Cooper . . . on neither April the thirteenth nor April the twenty-fourth.’

The blackbird was singing again, the sun glinting on the white blossom, just as it did in the orchards of my childhood. First the cherry blossom, then the pears and plums, then the apples my father turned into the finest cognac.

Of course I will come, Papa. I love to gather the apples . . .

They were staring intently. Why stare like that? I had done nothing.

‘These letters are meaningless, Mr Rabbly. Once outside, she’ll be brought straight back. Talking like that to people who aren’t there – cradling her shawl and singing to it as if it were a baby! The woman’s clearly insane. You wait . . . she’ll start shrieking there’s a swarm of mice in her room, or a plague of insects crawling over her. Worse still, her laughter’s like the baying of a wolf at full moon. You think I can even consider these false testimonials?’

I had no strength to fight; better to go willingly than be drugged and bound. Next, the purse would thump the table, the sovereigns carefully counted out. The seals may be different but the conversation that followed would be exactly the same.

The authority in Marcel Rablais’s voice returned. ‘I believe, Mr Gillis, that if you open your diary on those dates you will find these visits did occur.’ He reached into his bag and pulled out a heavy purse.

Three guineas, four guineas, a further six shillings, each coin carefully tested and swept into his drawer before Mr Gillis turned back the pages and reached for his quill. Carefully matching the right name of the physician under the correct day, he blotted the ink and flicked the diary pages forward, his pen poised against the day’s date. ‘Discharged under the care of Mr Marcel Rablais?’

‘No.’ Marcel leaned forward. ‘Discharged into the care of Madame Cécile Lefèvre.’

‘Cécile Lefèvre?’ A frown accompanied George Gillis’s loud grunt. Opening the top drawer, his thick fingers fumbled through a pile of letters. He drew one out. ‘We’ve had a letter from her, asking for the whereabouts of a certain Madeleine Pelligrew.’

My heart thumped, an agonising leap of hope.

Marcel Rablais leaned forward, taking the letter, reading it swiftly. ‘I’ll take this letter . . . In fact, I’ll take everything you have on Mrs Pelligrew.’ At the closing of the top drawer, he reached again for his purse, sliding another guinea across the desk and into Mr Gillis’s sweaty palm. A curt nod of his head and the correspondence was in his hands. ‘I’ll inform Madame Lefèvre that our business is at an end. You’ll retain the doctors’ testimonies but nothing else. No trace of her must be found. Elizabeth Cooper is now under my care. Unchain her and see to it that she has a hot bath. I’ve brought clothes and a wig. Be quick. I’m in a hurry to remove her from this foul place.’

The water was tepid, the cloth rough against my chafed skin. Rowan dabbed the bruise developing on my cheek. Already, I could feel the lump where Mrs Gillis’s ring had cut my lip. ‘There now. ’Tis done. I’m sure it will fade; ’tis not too fearful.’

Tears streamed down my cheeks. I was wrong to hope. Marcel Rablais only knew my brother’s name because I had told him when I entered the room. ‘He’s no different from the rest. Once in the cart, his ropes will appear. I’ve angered a powerful man, Rowan, and he’ll never let me go – Charles Cavendish will never, ever, let me go.’ I clutched the towel. ‘Dearest love . . . remember that name . . . and remember Lady Alice Polcarrow. Promise me you’ll get word to them. Somehow, send them word . . . Oh, if only I’d had time to teach you your letters.’

‘He called you Madeleine Pelligrew. Is that really yer name?’

My legs were as thin as sticks, my skin scratched raw, my feet still filthy despite Rowan’s scrubbing. ‘He said I talk out loud . . . that I laugh like a baying wolf . . . that I hold conversations . . . and cradle a baby that isn’t there. How can he say that?’ I was cold now, beginning to shiver.

Her whisper sounded strained. ‘Because ye do, Elizabeth . . . I mean, Madeleine. Not always, but very often . . . and it frightens me. One moment ye’re with me, the next ye’re far away.’

‘In my thoughts, maybe. But do I talk?’ She bit her lip. ‘What do I say?’

She held up the rough towel, wrapping it round my shoulders. ‘Ye talk to yer husband – ye ask him if he’d like to go swimming in the river. I hear ye before I come in. Ye’re laughing and coaxing him, saying it’s a perfect day for a swim.’

My heart froze. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’

She dabbed my bald head, taking care not to dislodge my scabs. ‘I don’t know what to think. Ye’re kind and ye’re loving, and ye treat me so nice. I don’t remember my mamm, nor hardly the woman who took me in. I’ve had no one treat me like ye do. I’ve grown to love ye, Elizabeth – I mean, Madeleine – and I’m that sad. That sad . . .’

I held her tightly, or perhaps she was holding me, clinging to each other with the wet towel between us. ‘Come with me . . .’ I whispered. ‘Please, please . . . come with me.’

Her jaw dropped. ‘What? Just leave this place? He’d never take me . . . they’d never let me go.’

‘I shall insist. There are plenty more coins in that purse. If Marcel Rablais does know my brother . . . then he’ll pay for you to come.’

A working woman’s gown hung over the chair, rough and worn, with a ruby and cream underskirt, a ruby bodice. Beside it was a cream calico jacket and wig. The brown wig stank of grease, the curls too short. It looked severe, unwholesome, the exact opposite of the golden mane that used to foam around my shoulders.

‘Are ye really a fine lady, from a grand house?’

I lifted my chin. ‘My father is a wealthy landowner – a wine merchant in Saint-Malo. One summer, I caught the eye of a fine English gentleman with a grand estate. He adored me and I adored him. We were only wed a year. I was expecting his child—’ I could no longer speak, my throat constricting as if I were choking, and I clutched her to me, my angel sent straight from heaven. ‘Come with me . . . Promise me the moment I start talking to myself you’ll stop me? Don’t let me laugh . . . don’t let me cradle my baby. I’ve tried so hard – so incredibly hard – to keep myself from madness. But what if they’re right? What if I’ve lost my mind?’

She stood tall, straight backed, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘I won’t let them think that. I’ll look after ye. Every day, I’ll be there for ye . . . and ye’ll get better. Take me to yer beautiful home . . . show me the folly and the river where ye loved to bathe.’

But, my dearest, you love swimming! The sun’s so warm and the water’s a glorious blue. They’ve sighted porpoises in the river mouth . . .

She dabbed the towel against my face. ‘Ye’re doing it now,’ she whispered. ‘Talking about swimming.’

I stared at her as if a mist was lifting. ‘Rowan . . . my husband loved swimming. He would never have drowned.’

Chapter Three

Bodmin Moor

Marcel Rablais flicked the reins, the cart jolting forward, and I clutched the seat, willing the pony to make haste. Take us through the gates . . . get us through the gates.

Rowan’s hand gripped mine, both of us rigid, staring ahead. Numerous outbuildings clustered around the ancient granite house, grey, austere, the stench from the stagnant pool almost overwhelming. There were nine of us, she told me; some kept in the house, others in the cottages, three of us in the converted pigpens.

The gown hung from me, the jacket loose, the foul-smelling wig pressing painfully against my sores. I was too scared to breathe; petrified they would race after us and drag us back. In her Sunday clothes, Rowan looked no better than a waif, the sleeves of her blue serge dress too long and badly darned, the hem stained and fraying.

Bartering over Rowan had delayed us. Mr Gillis insisted on a further two guineas, claiming he had paid good money for the girl and was not to be cheated. Marcel Rablais had shaken his head and offered no more than one guinea, but Mr Gillis was adamant and I had stood my ground; I would not leave without her. Marcel Rablais had remained courteous, finally agreeing I needed a maid. It was just that funds were short and we would have to economise.

No, my sweet darling . . . no need to economise. I’m going to spoil you . . .

Rowan slipped her finger to her lips. She shook her head and my stomach twisted. I must have been talking aloud. By the tight stretch of his shoulders, the strength and agility of his movements, Marcel Rabelais looked used to physical labour. The hands that counted out the coins and now held the reins were broad and browned by the sun. The nails were kept short and clean. Charles Cavendish always sent powerful men.

The breeze was fresh, verdant, filled with the scent of herbs and the smell of blossom. So pure, un-foetid, and I breathed deeply, a rush of dizziness making me feel light-headed. The cart was swaying, and I gripped the side. Rutted and steep in places, the path was rising out of the hidden dell. Geese pecked the grass in the orchard, sheep grazing the fields beyond. Once through the gates, I would find a way to escape. Before he reached for the rope to bind me. Before he sent Rowan on her way.

‘We’ll take the turnpike to Bodmin,’ Marcel Rablais shouted as he urged the pony forward. ‘It’s about four miles once we’ve passed the lake.’

I began trembling, my skirt shaking. My gown was too hot, the sun beating down on my bonnet, making the lice on my head crawl. I could feel them scurrying around. What if they were cockroaches? They were under my dress, crawling over my legs. He called back, ‘See that basket next to you? I’ve brought a flagon of beer and some strawberries. There’s bread and cheese as I thought you’d be hungry. We’ll stop at that tree.’

The rope would be hidden in the basket. He would bind me. The beer would be drugged. I must throw it from the cart – without a rope, he could not bind me. I reached over, undoing the leather buckles. Strawberries. Plump, juicy red strawberries.

‘Madeleine, are you all right?’

I gulped for air, wiping the tears streaming down my cheeks, my sobs so violent they shook my body. No rope. No chain. No fetters, but strawberries. The cart stopped and Marcel Rablais jumped to the ground, holding out his hand to help me down. ‘Madeleine . . . are you all right? May I call you Madeleine?’

I could only nod, a fresh burst of tears. ‘Please do. I’ve waited long enough to hear my name.’

His face was stern, no laughter lines, but his eyes filled with compassion. His brow was furrowed, his wig brown, a strong, straight nose, with whiskery eyebrows flecked with grey. His cheeks looked paler in the daylight, deep lines etching the sides of his mouth. He reached for the basket, pointing to the lone tree. ‘We’ll sit in the shade over there.’

He had his back to me and I lifted my skirt. The cockroaches must be hiding, but the lice under my bonnet were still scurrying. The sheer brightness dazzled me, my eyes watering. Cupping one hand against my forehead, I took his arm and began treading the rough moorland. Fourteen years of no grass. I wanted to fall to my knees and clutch it to me. Feel it, smell it, throw myself down and spread my fingers wide.

The vast purple moor stretched as far as I could see, a handful of trees blown sideways to their roots. Huge granite outcrops pierced the horizon, cattle grazing the rough grass. A blue lake lay glittering in the sunshine, and I stood breathless with wonder. I had forgotten how beautiful the world could be.

And you have robbed me of all this, Charles Cavendish.

Marcel laid out a cloth, pointing to a boulder that could act as our seat. Drawing out two pewter tankards he uncorked the beer. As if knowing I would refuse, he drank freely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before offering it to me, and I drank thirstily, greedily, unable to believe how delicious it tasted. Rowan sat beside me, refusing a drink but staring at the strawberries. One nod from me and we both reached for them, the juice running through our fingers and down our chins. Marcel handed me a napkin and I held it sobbing against my face.

‘We’ve been searching for you . . . following false trails, retracing our steps. They’ve been meticulous in covering up your whereabouts. I had to force my way into so many hellholes, searching for signs that you were there – finding your name scratched on the walls of increasingly dismal places.’

‘We?’

‘First with your brother, then just me. At first, your brother believed all was well – that you were comfortably resettled. The rumours were that you’d remarried, but when he didn’t hear anything from you, he came searching.’

I gazed across the vast moorland, anger burning my chest. ‘How is my brother? Did he marry Emeline?’

‘Yes. They have four children – two boys and two girls. The eldest is called Madeleine after you, the youngest, Marie, after your mother. Your father is . . . I’m so sorry to have to tell you . . . but your father died peacefully in his sleep after a short illness.’

I nodded. ‘Who is Cécile Lefèvre?’

He glanced at Rowan. ‘You can clear away the food now. Take the basket back to the cart and remain there.’ His voice dropped, speaking in our mother tongue. ‘I’ve not met Cécile Lefèvre, but I’m in close contact with her. She’s a good friend of your brother and . . .’ His eyes followed Rowan as she nuzzled the pony. ‘You are aware our country is at war with Britain?’

‘Rowan told me – but her knowledge is limited.’

‘It’s been seven years now. As you can imagine, travel between our two countries is severely restricted. I have false papers saying I’m from Guernsey, which is very helpful for those wishing to leave or return to France.’ His eyes pierced mine, alert with hidden meaning.

I had not heard French spoken since my two sisters waved me goodbye at the quayside. Nine months later I heard of their sudden illness. Mother died, too, but Joshua had refused to let me go home, believing it was too great a risk to the baby I was carrying. ‘Cécile Lefèvre asked you to find me?’

‘No, your brother did. He uses her very efficient services. Cécile Lefèvre will see us safely back to France. I wrote to her, telling her I’d found you and I’m awaiting her instructions. Until I hear otherwise, we’ll go to the address on her letter to George Gillis.’

The beer had fortified me. ‘Marcel . . . what if I’m not quite ready to leave England?’

His eyes widened. ‘Not ready to leave? Madeleine, are you—’

He was going to say mad. I could see it in his eyes, that sudden flicker of panic. Or was it disappointment, or worse, anger? ‘You think me a frail and broken woman who eats no better than an animal, who stinks despite my bath. Whose grip on sanity is slipping . . . but I wouldn’t be here today if I had not harboured unfinished business. It’s what kept me alive. Monsieur Rablais, I cannot leave England until that business is concluded.’

‘Madeleine, I beg you . . .’

His voice had turned stern, his mouth tightening, and I matched it with my own, sounding stronger than I felt. ‘I insist you take me to Pendenning Hall.’

‘Please reconsider. I believe that to be very dangerous – foolish, even.’

‘I’m going to Fosse, Monsieur Rablais, whether you take me or not.’

His frown vanished. For such a stern man, I saw the sudden watering of a tear. ‘My dear lady, I am taking you to Fosse . . . but please, allow me to dissuade you against Pendenning Hall. It’s too dangerous. What if you’re recognised?’

I smiled at him, stifling a laugh. Relief, excitement, the sudden granting of all my prayers. He was taking me to Fosse, and he thought they might recognise me? It was too absurd, too funny not to laugh. He looked away and fear shot through me. What had George Gillis said? Baying like a wolf in the moonlight.

His arm was strong as he helped me back to the cart. ‘We need to hurry if we’re to catch the stagecoach from Bodmin.’ Too strong. Too powerful, and I pulled myself free. ‘Madeleine . . . please, dear lady. Do not fear me.’

Of course I feared him. I feared and hated all men. They lied, they cheated; not one of them could be trusted. I could trust only Rowan, my own, sweet Rowan.

‘Marcel, from now on we will speak only English. I’ll have nothing said that Rowan can’t understand.’ I hoped I sounded convincing. My stomach was churning, painful spasms shooting through me. ‘And Rowan’s not my maid – she’s my adopted daughter . . . please treat her with more courtesy.’

If he was cross he hid it well, helping me up the crooked wooden step as if I were porcelain. He turned and frowned. Across the moor a man stood silhouetted against the sun. He was leading his mule but had stopped and was staring in our direction.

‘We’ve no time to lose.’ His voice was urgent, his lips clamping as he whipped the reins. The pony picked up speed and I fought my fear. He, too, must think Charles Cavendish was having the madhouse watched.

Chapter Four

We wound round rocky outcrops, skirting the reed-fringed lakes with water as blue as the sky. Coaches flew past us, throwing up stones and dust, sounding their horns, making me jump. Everything seemed so fast, everywhere so vast, and I gripped the seat. Rowan’s hands remained clasped, her huge brown eyes alert for danger. She kept turning round, expecting the man with the mule to catch us up and drag us back. She had not been out of Pendrissick Madhouse for eight years: a captive like me.

Large black birds flew up as we approached, a bird of prey circling above us, and I closed my eyes, trying to remember their names. Endless days and sleepless nights desperate to keep my wits alive – naming all the birds I knew, the flowers I had planted, the trees in the parkland. Ravens . . . crows . . . no, choughs – and that large bird was a buzzard. My mind felt fragile, like the charred remains of paper rescued from the fire. The edges were curled and blackened, but the centre? The centre was still readable.

Charles Cavendish had not reduced me so low that I could not exact my revenge.

A downhill slope, the road now winding through a verdant valley. Wheat fields rippled beside us, the scent of blossom drifting from the orchards, and I breathed in the sweet memories of my childhood – my sisters chasing me, flowers in their hair, bedraggled posies clutched in their hands.

‘That’s Bodmin,’ Marcel called over his shoulder.

A huge granite building dominated one end of the town, a church with a tall tower the other. Slowing to allow a mule pack to pass, our pony plodded between men and women carrying baskets on their heads. The streets were crowded, vendors shouting their wares. Women were shopping; attorneys from the law court, wearing white wigs and formal gowns, strode along the even pavements. Tradesmen were wheeling trolleys laden with fruit and vegetables, oxen pulling carts. A coach thundered past, and I gripped Rowan’s hand.

Everything seemed too loud, too fast, horses foaming at the mouth, drivers cursing. A bugle sounded and I jumped in fear. Our pony shied and Marcel pulled hard on the reins. ‘That’s the post coach – you’ll find a lot has changed.’ His scowl deepened. ‘Sorry to frighten you like that. They topple carts rather than stop. We’re nearly at the inn. I imagine all this is rather overwhelming.’

‘Everything’s so busy. All these people . . .’

‘It’ll be a lot busier than you remember. I’ll get you settled and return this cart. I’ll buy the tickets to Fosse – I won’t take long. I’ll order us something to eat first.’

‘People are staring at me.’

‘No. It’s just we’re blocking the road.’ He whipped the reins and the pony walked on.

I did indeed feel overwhelmed, a dull ache building behind my eyes. Malt from the brewery, fresh dung from the stables. A strong smell of varnish – surely that was lilac? The street was narrowing, the buildings crowding over us, but I was grateful for the shade. Freshly baked bread lay stacked in shop windows, the aroma of coffee drifting across the street. Rowan gripped the seat, her eyes widening.

‘See all that meat on the block? There’s barrows and barrows of vegetables. Look at them ladies’ clothes . . . look at them bonnets.’

The dilapidated houses I remembered had been replaced by fine red-brick buildings with large windows, elaborate porticos and iron railings. Pavements had been laid, the dirt and mud now a cobbled marketplace. A bank, a grand hotel, another bank. I remembered it as a long, winding street with houses in poor repair and muddy alleys reaching down to the river, but it seemed so prosperous now, almost double in size.

‘I’ll pull up behind that coach.’

My heart lurched. The inn looked smarter, certainly, but instantly recognisable as the inn I had stayed at with my beloved husband.

The White Hart, my dearest . . . I stopped at Rowan’s shake of the head. ‘The White Hart,’ I said again. ‘My dearest, I’ve been here before.’

She smiled and a blush burned my cheeks. Marcel helped us from the cart, throwing his leather bag over his shoulder as he opened the heavy door to the inn. The fug of tobacco was instantly unpleasant. Smoke stung my eyes, my head throbbing as if it would burst.

‘Through here . . . I’ll secure us a private chamber.’

The taproom was crammed to bursting, loud voices pounding in my ears. Bags and portmanteaus were piled next to the unlit fire. Women wearing heavy capes were scolding children, buttoning them up to the neck, pulling down their hats. Men in travelling jackets stood sucking at pipes, holding ale against their chests as they kept one eye on the clock.

The landlord nodded, his bald head gleaming, his sturdy finger pointing to the stairs, and I fought to breathe. Sweat trickled down my back and I stood suddenly rigid. It was not sweat, it was the lice. No, cockroaches. Swarms of them crawling beneath my clothes.

‘Get this off.’ I started pulling the tight buttons on my jacket, twisting them, tugging them. They were under my wig as well. Hundreds of them crawling up my thighs. My arms were gripped, strong arms forcing me up the stairs.

‘In here . . . she’ll be all right. It’s cooler here. Help her, Rowan. Do everything you can to make her comfortable. I’ve ordered hot water and something to eat. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

I hardly heard them, but stood ripping off my heavy jacket, fumbling with the drawstring of my bodice. ‘They’re biting me. Get this off.’ At last my gown was off and I stood clawing at my skin, furiously scratching as they swarmed all over me.

‘Madeleine, stop. Stop and look . . . There’s nothing there.’ Rowan’s urgent voice pierced my panic. ‘Ye’re itching because ye’re sore . . . but there’s no insects swarming over you. I promise. Ye only think there is.’

My head was pounding. I was shivering, my skin bleeding. A knock sounded on the door, a stout woman backing slowly into the room. A towel hung from her arm, a basin of steaming water held in her hands. ‘There now. Here’s soap an’ a towel—’ She saw me and froze, backing quickly away. ‘I’ll bring yer meal when it’s ready.’

I stood staring at my reflection – my scabby scalp, the thinness of my legs, the bones jutting out below my neck. Those I knew about, but the hollow, pinched face with such a look of hatred? I stared in horror. Lines radiated from my eyes, a deep furrow in my forehead. A downward clamp to my mouth, my cracked lips smudged with sores. I had no eyebrows, my cheeks pitted with scars and red blotches. I was like one of the hideous gargoyles on my cottage in the garden of Pendenning Hall.

‘This water’s lovely an’ hot. Let me help wash your face . . .’ Rowan handed me a warm sponge and I pressed it against my burning cheeks.

‘Rowan . . .’ I could not to speak for sobbing. ‘Would you ask the landlady for some lanolin . . . or balm . . . or goose fat – anything to soothe the rawness. And I need gauze for under my wig . . . and bandages for my ankles.’ At the door, I called after her. ‘And lace to sew on to my bonnet. Ask the landlady to send for black lace.’ She nodded and left and I stared into the mirror once more.

This is what you’ve brought me to, Sir Charles Cavendish. My lips were moving, my eyes hardening.

Marcel smiled. ‘The lace is beautiful and I’m glad you’re pleased with it. You deserve so much more than I can give you, but I must speak candidly . . . my funds are limited. Our expenses have already stretched what little I have.’ The remains of the cold luncheon lay on the table. Smiling at Rowan, he handed her a cloth. ‘We’ll take the rest with us.’

I reached for one last slice of Madeira cake. The chicken was finished, the ham and bread demolished. Marcel had held back, watching with pleasure as Rowan and I piled our plates. My fingers were still covered in grease, and a wave of shame reddened my cheeks. I had not even thought to use a fork or cut anything with a knife.

‘The coach leaves in half an hour. I’ve told the landlord my name is Barnard and you’re my sister-in-law. That should cover our tracks.’