We must set off early to make our way into ‘town’. Dawn trembles upon the horizon. The moon is still at large, refusing to be cowed. No clouds obscure its milky glow. It seems set to be a bright day.
Our pony is eager to be on the move. He paws the grass, breath pluming from his nostrils. Although his winter coat has grown thick on his rump, he clearly still feels the cold. One would need to be made of stone to ignore it. I am exceedingly lucky that Merryn has lent me her cloak.
Three people just about fit on the trap. The backwards seat, where I put my trunk on the journey down, will serve us for any packages we bring home. Gerren initially places himself in the middle, but Mrs Quinn is much larger, so he ends up pushed towards the right-hand side with me anyway. Even in the fresh, salty air, I can smell the tobacco on his coat. This morning, I do not mind. I am grateful for his warmth.
Gerren loosens the reins and the pony springs to life. The wheels wobble. I remember the winding road up the cliff and gulp.
Behind us, Morvoren House is shuttered and sightless. I gaze over my shoulder, keeping it in view until we sink downhill, deep into the darkness. Miss Pinecroft will still be there, in the china room. I hope Merryn will be kind to her in my absence, help her to drink her morning chocolate.
I have more potent liquids to pursue.
We do not take the Falmouth road. I am glad, for that would be an arduous journey. It crosses my mind to ask our destination, but the name of the town would mean nothing to me.
As we travel inland, a pink pearly light begins to wash up the sky and a very different Cornwall materialises before my eyes. Here there are no raw cliffs or craggy rocks, only hills sliding from green to gold. Hedgerows and stone walls tease the eye in every direction. Far away, the flues of tin and copper mines pierce the horizon.
This land is fertile; there are a great quantity of trees. Some have twisted to odd shapes in the wind, all of them are bare, and yet they give me the impression life is slumbering, just waiting to erupt.
The sound of the sea fades. I can still smell and taste the salt, but I no longer feel it shredding my cheeks. Sir Arthur’s acquaintances would call such a landscape picturesque. They would marvel over its untamed romance. I prefer the formal gardens of London with their straight lines and patterns. What I would not give now to see a fountain or a trained and pruned privet hedge. Everything neatly controlled.
‘Nearly there,’ Mrs Quinn announces, making me jump.
From a distance, I see a hotchpotch of whitewashed houses surrounding a bay. Narrow streets twist uphill to more buildings, some of them roughcast like Morvoren House but much smaller. I push back the hood of Merryn’s cloak. It does not appear so much a town as a large fishing village.
Entering the bustle of streets feels strange after my three days on the clifftop. Descending a steep lane, we pass a rope maker and a chair mender to stop outside an inn. Its walls are embroidered with the remains of ivy.
My spirits lift.
Mrs Quinn is already making her way down from the trap with a basket hooked over her arm, eager to be about her business. Gerren points to the stone church tower, close by the water.
‘Back by two bells,’ he says.
Together, Mrs Quinn and I make our way over the cobbles. A man drives sheep in the opposite direction. This is a busy village, a boat-making village, the housekeeper informs me. There are certainly signs of small industry: women mending nets, children dashing about with pails. Boats bob at anchor in the bay.
‘Walk with me to save growing lost,’ she offers. ‘I’ll show you about, but first I’ve to visit the bank for the mistress, and Mrs Bawden has a fancy—’
‘Please, do not trouble yourself. I have an excellent sense of direction.’ Seeing her mouth droop, I add hastily, ‘I should only get in your way. I do so hate to make a nuisance of myself.’
Mrs Quinn hesitates. ‘ ’Tis your choice. Only wait outside the church when you’re done, and I’ll meet you there.’ She hands me a small purse of coins and cups my fingers tight around them. ‘Be careful. I shouldn’t like you to fall in the way of any rough folk.’
I nod, as if she is very wise. ‘I shall be cautious. Living in London certainly taught me that.’
Living in London has also taught me to appreciate this view of the sky: a great bowl overhead, clouds draped across it like lace on blue silk. I do not remember ever seeing so much of it.
I wander at random. A woman bundled up in a threadbare shawl eyes me warily. The butcher’s boy stops to watch my progress, a parcel of bloody meat dripping in his hands. I raise the hood of Merryn’s cloak over my face again. I daresay I appear strange to these people. Dressed simply though I am, my gown is a world apart from their mud-splattered boots and darned clothes. These people have known hard times. The wars have been kind to no one, and our Regent is not famed for his consideration of the lower classes. I see the cracks cut into their hands by salt, and remember reading of bread riots in Truro. Circumstances have improved, but not greatly.
For me, it is quaint to wind through this little village, up and downhill as the erratic cobbles dictate. Whether it is the freedom from Morvoren House, the bright day or the prospect of gin that charms me, I am certainly happier than I have been for a long while.
I locate an apothecary without much trouble. His premises are small and grimed with dirt at the windows. There is a seedy appearance to him. The bottles are dusty about the shoulders, the weighing scales tarnished. He sells a variety of quack nostrums, the Venice turpentine and syrup of maidenhair I need, and he can even supply my gin from under the counter. Once, I would despise such a man. Hester Why thinks him a capital fellow.
Uncorking the gin bottle with my teeth, I press it against my lips. I have spent laudanum-weary nights dreaming of this moment, but the reality is better.
I find a fence to lean against and watch a small boy selling packets of newspapers. He struggles to keep them from taking off in the breeze. It seems fitting that he is here. A newspaper started me drinking, after all. That advertisement, still hidden in my trunk. God knows why I have kept it. To feel wanted, perhaps, sought after.
I take another sip of gin.
It is unbearable to imagine Lady Rose out there in the world, despising me. But even worse is the possibility that she does not think of me at all.
In the distance, a church clock chimes. My time is running out. I decant the bottle I am holding into my empty hip flask; the other I wrap carefully in an extra shawl and place at the bottom of my basket. I need to cushion it as thoroughly as it cushions me. Mrs Quinn must not hear the telltale chink.
I nearly make it: go straight to the church and meet Mrs Quinn. But as I pass the boy, my footsteps slow. He pushes the salt-matted hair from his eyes and looks up at me with a world of hope.
Somehow my hand is already in my pocket. I have just enough left after buying the gin. Sick with anticipation, I press the coins into his print-stained palm.
The packet tears in the wind and the foolishly large pages beat frantically like the wings of a netted gull. I consider crumpling the newspaper into my basket and taking it up again once we are home. But that is a trial of patience my nerves will not stand.
I reach the society pages first. My eyes scan the print eagerly for news of her. A certain duchess has been seen sporting a new hat . . . One of the Prince Regent’s outriders lost his way in the fog and fell into a ditch . . . There will be a musical gathering in the Queen’s Concert Rooms . . .
And then comes the sensation of falling.
It is worse than that day in Salisbury. So much worse.
The boy swims at the edge of my vision. ‘Miss?’
I have just enough time to set my basket down upon the cobbled pavement. Then the world turns mercifully black.